Notes and Pictures
by amdev
Summary: Brittany finds someone's agenda and doesn't know what to do with it. AU. First story, reviews would be greatly appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes and Pictures**

Summary: Brittany finds an agenda and doesn't know what to do with it.

* * *

It's strange, how much you can learn about someone by rifling through their agenda. You've never met this person (a woman, judging by the neat script) yet in all of 30 seconds, you found out their work schedule, when certain papers are due, how much time she spend at the gym (you're impressed) and appointments with friends. Q seems to be a favourite.

You stop at some pictures that are stuck between the pages. They're all beautiful, mostly black and white and none of them portray people.

This doesn't really help you finding the owner.

Seeing as some of the notes seem to be written in Spanish, you guess that she's Hispanic. Well, that's just wildly unhelpful: it seems like you're looking for a Latina in New York.

Maybe she put her phone number in it? Apparently not, which means she's either lax or very private. No luck at an emergency contact either, perfect.

You don't think it will be of any help to drop it off at the lost and found and perhaps she won't even miss it.

You take one more look around the library and decide to just take it with you. Who knows, maybe she'll be here again tomorrow. Anyway, you're late to dance class and you'll look it over again at home, maybe you'll find something then.

It's been three weeks and you're still not any closer to finding the owner of the agenda. You make sure you always have it with you, just in case you run into a Latina looking around the library. You never do.

You find it strangely reassuring to just take it out and flip through the pages. Some of the notes you found out are actually poetry, quotes from famous dead people or lines from a classic book you've never bothered to read.

Most books you read were for school, and you hated them. You're sure Mrs. Brown picked them out just to torture you and kill any joy ever may have had in literature.

You regret that now.

This girl seems to live for it. Pablo Neruda and Shakespeare keep popping up and you find yourself hesitantly begin to appreciate them as well. In small doses, but it's a start.

There are also notes, hidden in the back and scribbled as in a hurry, that you can't find a source of. You like these best and wonder where she found them.

* * *

It takes takes another month before you get another idea how you might find the mysterious owner of 'your' agenda. The photos.

Last night you got off the subway one station early because some creep behind you thought rush hour was a perfect excuse to constantly touch your butt. It was just a couple of blocks. As you walked, the sun was setting and suddenly the depressing concrete buildings seemed less hard and intimidating. When you crossed the park, the sun hit the gazebo in decay just at the right angle and you recognised it as one of the pictures. Only you saw it in colour.

So since yesterday (and because it's the weekend and you have nothing better to do) you've started comparing the photos to landmarks in your neighbourhood. You're surprised and delighted to discover that most of them are from the park, or at least within a one block radius from it. She must live here, somewhere.

Sunday morning you put your plan into motion. Your roommate told you in her less than subtle way that you were ridiculous and how you shouldn't try to re-enact Amélie. While honestly it's her own fault for forcing you to watch the film (even though you completely fell in love with it after only two minutes. Despite the language barrier).

To your defense: you're not _really _trying to re-enact it, you've just been inspired by it. You would never take a picture of your bare stomach with a question mark on it and put it on every available surface in the park. That'd just be weird.

No, your plan is to put up some of her photos, accompanied by the notes that seem to suit it best. You only use the most recognisable photos, just in case.

You don't exactly know why, but you don't use any of the 'secret' notes. Maybe it's because you're selfish and want to keep them to yourself.

To make sure she knows how to contact you, you've included your phone number and adress, but not your name. That would be asking for trouble. You're curious how long it will take her to find you.

You're surprised when she makes it to your appartment before you do.

After taking the stairs to the eighth floor (the lift's broken _again_), you take a minute to catch your breath before turning the corner to your front door. As soon as you do though, you're breathless again.

There, nervously pacing, at the end of the hallway and in front of your door, is the girl whose agenda you've been carrying around with you for the last couple of weeks. She must be, if the long black hair and muttered Spanish are anything to go by.

And she's stunning.

Usually you're not quick to hand out compliments, but this girl… You know you're no good with words but even if you were, you don't think you would be able to properly express just how beautiful she is.

Suddenly, she stops mid-pace and looks up to you, furrowing her brow at your close proximity (when did you get so close?) and asks whether you're the one who found her agenda. She sounds unsure for some reason.

You nod and gesture for her to follow you inside. She does and you're relieved somehow.

You tell her to take a seat and you'll be right back. For safety reasons you thought it unwise to leave the cherished little book in the living room. Rachel's too nosy for her own good and you're strangely protective of the pictures and words inside the leather cover. Thank god she's not home tonight.

When you walk back into the living room she seems tense, perched on the edge of the sofa. You chuckle quietly and when she turns around, you hand her the book.

Although she doesn't thank you in so many words, you take comfort in the way she takes a deep breath and smiles softly.

You think maybe she's better in expressing herself through writing than actually talking. You don't mind. You're still a bit dazed by her company and don't think you'd be able to process much of what she'd say anyway.

She doesn't accept your offer for a drink, but you don't feel rejected. She explains she's in a hurry and gives you her name instead. You're much more thankful for that, even more so when she writes down her phone number. Just in case, she says. We'll get some drink later, as a thank you. But now she really has to leave, she's already late.

You let her out and just before she turns to walk out into the hallway, you offer her your name. She smiles again, fully this time. You're almost too distracted by cute dimples to watch her leave.

Tomorrow you're having coffee with Santana.


	2. Chapter 2

**Most people don't bother reading these notes, but I still wanted to let you know that I'm thankful to you for reading this story. I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with it. I can make no promises to how often I'll update, but you should not count on anything until at least next weekend.**

**Also, I apologise for any grammatical mistakes that have undoubtedly slipped through. My spelling control thingie isn't working and I've never really bothered to master the art of it. In my defense: I'm not a native speaker and have been reading far too much fanfiction lately which unfortunately is not always written correctly.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I pretend to, have any rights to these characters and/or Glee. **

Chapter 2: Closer

Santana is indeed a private person, you find out the next day. Yesterday she was distracted and in a hurry, so you guess that's why she gave you her name and agreed to see you today. The girl silently sipping her coffee and looking up every other minute seems too timid to do something like that. After deciding that if you look any longer without walking up to her you'll look like a stalker, you take your steaming hot chocolate and make your way across the crowded café. You like this place because it's small, personal and at least these people know how to make hot chocolate properly. Made with real milk, cacoa, cinnamon and a bit of cayenne pepper. You hope the coffee is good as well, you've never tried it.

When you stop at her table you don't want to startle so you her clear your throat and gesture if it's all right for you to sit down. She looks up, nods and awkwardly starts to stand up. You think it's adorable that she acts so formal and tell her it's okay. You shrug off your coat and are emberassed when your arm catches in you left sleeve. Why does that have to happen _every_ time? The first few minutes are a bit uncomfortable, exchanging pleasantries and some quick glances before turning back to your drinks. After the small talk, she opens up a bit and you ask her about the photographs and notes she collected in her agenda. You hope you're not imposing, but it's all you know about her and not nearly enough.

She seems surprised you remembered, apparently already forgotten how you got her to contact you in the first place. But then you see her glancing behind you and rolling her eyes at herself. When you follow her line of sight you see one of your posters. What, you wanted to be thorough and the park is right across the street. The picture is of an old house, surrounded by new flats. You're still not sure if someone still lives there, but it looks empty either way. You think the note you put as a caption describes it perfectly.

_S__o I wait for you like a lonely house  
till you will see me again and live in me.  
Till then my windows ache._

That was the poster she saw before she went up to your appartment yesterday. She recognised her photograph, but didn't think much of it. Until she read those phrases. Seeing the two of them put together reminded her of her grandmother back home, she tells you. She doesn't explain why, but that would be too personal. Instead, she tells you she was a bit obsessed with reading in school. She doesn't go into detail, but you gather it wasn't a nice time for her. She starts to explain what she means when she dives into her bag and takes out her agenda, the old one. You're glad to see it again and it's a comfort to know she's using this one. In the weeks you had the book in your possesion, you have come to memorise it and now you feel it's as much yours as it is hers. You know that's ridiculous, but you like the idea of her carrying something around that you know so intimately.

When she finds the note she was looking for, she motions for you to sit next to her so you can read along with her. You're glad you asked her about the notes; all her reserve has vanished. In those 30 minutes with Santana you learn more about language and literature than you ever did struggling in school. You wonder why she's not an English major.

Unfortunately you have to go to class, but when you see her looking disappointed you say you'd like to meet again. You even throw in a joke about paying for your own drink, so she still kinds of owes you one. She chuckles and checks her agenda. You're flattered when she proposes this Friday, you know she has a busy week ahead of her and mentally rearrange your own schedule. You can meet up with Mike some other time.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, you fall into a rhythm. You never really mention it, but it quickly becomes a tradition to meet every Friday when you're both done with classes. Your friends from school tease you with it, but you don't care that you're not joining them at a bar like you used to. You were already over that anyway. Hiding in a small café with Santana to celebrate your weekend is much more appealing. She's usually waiting for you at what you deem your table and most of the time she's reading a book. As soon as she realises you're here though, she puts it away, along with her glasses which you regret. You like how she's so concentrated and at ease. It still takes her some time to relax again after you've joined her.

You're surprised when she tells you about the photographs, because you haven't asked about them since the first time. It's rare that she offers you some insight into her life and you're eager to encourage her.

It's a way to make her feel at home she says. She took most of those pictures when she was living here just a few weeks. She didn't know anyone in the city because she lives alone (some unfortunate incidents with roommates leaving after just a couple of days because they couldn't deal with her temper, which you have a hard time believing) and doesn't care too much about her fellow students (who she constantly refers to as annoying know-it-alls). By taking a picture of something, capturing it on film, she feels like she owns a piece of it. Made it her own. So she hoped to feel more at home, at least in her own neighbourhood, if she owned part of it. It worked.

You wonder if that's the reason you didn't find any portraits, or maybe she keeps those someplace else.

* * *

When you bring over a delicious chocolate cake (thanks to your grandmother's secret recipe and a three-hour phone call with your mother) and set it in front of her, Santana looks at you with a quirked eyebrow, wondering what the occasion is. You just shrug and tell her it's your 10th coffee date anniversary. The hug you receive is unexpected, uncharacteristic and surprisingly strong for such a small person. You're nervous about how the cake will taste. You never had much faith in your culinary skills, or recipes for that matter, but with the step by step instructions from your mother you're fairly confident you won't poison or disgust someone (you had to promise Ian, the owner, that he could have the rest of the cake).

If the look on Santana's face is anything to go by, you owe your grandma a thank you card and maybe a visit to her and your parents before the new year.

As you get up to leave, she pulls you in for another hug and whispers a thank you in your ear. You pull her closer and wish her a happy birthday.

The expression on her face when she pulls back makes you feel like running around screaming at the top of your longs or hiding under your covers, giggling and grinning like a fool for three days straight. If there was any doubt about it, in that moment you know that yes, you really are in love with Santana Lopez.

**Sorry to bother you again, but some constructive criticism would be great!**


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note:

**First of all, I want thank you for reading this fic and if you have left a review: you made my day. I know most people on here say that and I never realised how true that is until now. So thank you. You are awesome. **

**A special thank you to my Beta, who was kind enough to improve this chapter and encourages me, even if she doesn't know it herself.**

Chapter 3: Elements

Most days, you think you have Santana generally figured out. You know her mannerisms, what her interests are and you can usually predict her reactions. Usually, not always. And that's just the problem. Every time you meet, you have this burning ache to tell her about your feelings. Not necessarily to ask her out or anything (though that would be _great_), because that might scare her off, but because you have no idea if she's into girls or not. Somehow you always skip over that subject when you're talking and that's fine, but you just _really_ want to know. You do know she's not in a relationship of any kind at the moment, which baffles you honestly. What is wrong with the world if a girl who is by all means perfect is still single? You have seen some of the patrons eyeing her from time to time which either causes you to shuffle in your seat or sit up straight and glare at them. Luckily, they never come over and when Santana catches their gaze she doesn't show any interest. Maybe she just has high standards. Maybe she's looking for someone with long hair, better posture and, you know, _boobs_. That would be great. So to sum it up: you know most things about Santana, except her sexuality.

And the fact that she can be downright _furious, _which you discover when you stroll into the café accompanied by a gust of wind and freezing rain. At first, you don't notice because she isn't screaming or causing a scene or something like that. It's only when you're within five feet of your table, you hear her hissing short sentences into her phone. She keeps alternating between Spanish and English and you're impressed with the fact that despite her anger she speaks in perfect, fluent phrases at an almost impossible rate. You're still admiring her when she suddenly turns around and is startled at your presence. You understand she can't exactly halt the conversation because you just walked in and gesture that you'll get something to drink. At the bar you grab a newspaper and decide to just wait until she's finished.

You order a hot cholcolate for her as well, it helps calm you down when you're upstet and you hope it works for her as well. Maybe you should get her a cookie too, this place serves some mean chocolate chip cookies. You'll just order two.

Halfway through an article on something boring happening to people you've never even heard of, Santana taps you on the arm and slides on the stool next to you. You slide the cookie and hot chocolate over to her and put the paper away. She looks surprised yet pleased before taking a sip and you just look at her, waiting. She'll tell you if she thinks it important enough. You break the silence by telling her a story about Lord Tubbington, your cat. What you tell her isn't actually true, and you suspect she knows this, but it's still worth it to see her brighten up a bit. She almost chokes on her drink when you tell her about the many times he's terrified the mailman by running after him at full speed (which is still rather impressive, considering the fact that he's obese) and making the strangest noise ever heard from a cat. You think it has something to do with the treats you had ordered online. When you try to imitate the noise, you're sure half the café has suddenly halted their conversations and you've not blushed this hard since accidentally walking into the wrong locker room when you first started at Julliard. (Knowing that most of those boys were even gayer than you are was a small comfort at the time.) Santana however is shaking with laughter and you feel proud to have accomplished your task. When she's finished (and somehow managed to steal half of your cookie) she's serious again and asks if you'd like to join her for a walk. It must be really serious if she wants to take a walk right now: the rain is currently beating against the windows and it's getting dark. But she's never asked you to join her anywhere other than the café and at least this way you'll be sure she gets home alright.

When you follow Santana through the door, you bump into her because the second she set foot outside the warm café she was greeted by the cold sting of sleet. You never realised it before, but apparently Santana also really hates the cold. She doesn't have a hat or scarf with her, because the rain only started just as you went to the café and earlier it was quite nice out. You don't hasitate to take your hat of (it's your favourite with those big woolen flaps to cover your ears) and put it on hers. She seems startled, but pulls it further over her ears nonetheless. You're getting used to each other.

She points to the park and tells you she just wants to walk around for a bit, to get her mind straight. You nod and walk alongside her. She doesn't say anything at first but you don't feel shut out. It gives you a moment to think as well. You always felt it is easier to think outside; like all your thoughts are swept clean with the wind. Fresh air helps you breathe and all problems that seemed enormous and overwhelming indoors shrink to at least manageable proportions.

On days like these you sometimes think back to your last trip to the Netherlands, where your grandparents lived. You'd always go to the dykes (you didn't know there where more meanings to this word until you hit high school and got confused when someone would compare you to an embankment) and let yourself lean back on the wind. The first time you dared to let go of your grandmothers hand was because she had assured you that nothing would go wrong and indeed nothing _did_. You almost burst with happiness. You were amazed that something that wasn't tangible could be so powerful. You stayed there until your grandmother said it was time to go home, almost an hour later.

You got home sopping wet and even after an hour in the tub, you still couldn't feel your toes, but that elation didn't disappear.

You're shaken from your daydreams when Santana gently nudges your shoulder and asks if you heard anything she said. Your sheepish look must be telling enough and she chuckles softly. Maybe your hot chocolate helped, or maybe being outside helps her thinking as well. She repeats that she's starting to get cold, despite your lovely hat, and thinks she should go home. It's getting late anyway and she's hungry. You almost offer to cook for her, but don't. Just because the cake went well doesn't mean your cooking skills have miraculously improved overnight and you don't want to disappoint her. Rachel's probaby home now and you really don't want to deal with the neverending flood of questions she'd undoubtedly subject you to if you were to take Santana home.

Santana was tracing circles into the pile of dead leaves you were standing near and kept her gaze on the ground when she said she should go home. When you didn't answer, she looked at you and was quick to tell you she didn't want to be rude, but she had agreed to eat dinner with Quinn tonight at her place. She hesitates again before asking if you're free this Wednesday? It's starting to become weird that you've never been to her appartment when you've been friends for a few months now. You respond that she hasn't been to your appartment either and that those ten minutes when she came to pick up her agenda don't really count. But you'd love to come over. She smiles warmly and when her cheeks touch the flaps from your hat, she blushes and starts to take it off. You put you hand on her arm to stop her. You're not cold and it looks better on her anyway. She reminds you of a chipmunk like this. But a really cute one. The look she gives you is somewhere between amused and insulted, but she keeps the hat. Small victories.

You give her a hug before you turn around to walk home. You're glad the restraint that had been there the first time you did this when you left, has gone. You've always been a tactile person and didn't think much of it, until you felt her stiffen. Now she usually hugs you even tighter, but she hasn't initiated one since her birthday. You still have trouble getting used to her smell that surrounds you on close contact. Even now, weeks after first being exposed to it, you can't quite place it. Maybe that's the beauty of it; it's something uniquely _Santana_ and you wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world.

Just before you collapse on your bed after you got home, it sinks in. Wednesday will be the first time you'll meet each other someplace other than the café. You're invited to her _home_.

Suddenly you're nervous.

**Please leave a review, I'm interested to know what you think.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for reading and if you liked it, please let me know. Any ideas/suggestions are welcome as well. I will be busy for the next week (who ever thought tests were a good idea, I don't like you very much) so it might take some time until I finish the next chapter, so I apologise in advance. **

**Once again a special thank you to my lovely Beta, who, despite having a life of her own, somehow manages to make time to help me write. **

Chapter 4: Small insights

Perhaps it shouldn't have come as a surprise, but one of the first words that come to mind when you enter Santana's appartment that Wednesday, is _sophisticated_. Unlike your appartment, which is a somewhat succesful mix of your taste and Rachel's. But here, everything seems to just fit. From the furniture to the curtains to the colour of the walls, it's all balanced. You feel a bit overwhelmed and out of place at first.

Santana told you she'd be with you in a moment, because she had something to tend to in the kitchen. You decide to just wait for her in the living room and tentatively take a seat on the sofa. You see a few statuettes standing on the shelves between rows of books. Some of them look familiar, maybe you've seen them in your old History books. It wouldn't be surprising; Santana told you she's a History major and particularly likes classical antiquity. You take in the room a bit more and think it's the kind of appartment you thought you might live in when you're 28, with a successful career and maybe a girlfriend. Now it just reminds you of the fact that you have neither of those things, are still in college and in love with your unsuspecting best friend. Who is currently humming quietly while stirring something in the kitchen, which is still spotless as far as you can see. Maybe you should just call Santana next time you feel courageous and want to try cooking again.

Watching her cook seems to be much more interesting than checking out her appartment, so you walk to the kitchen and sit down on one of the stools by the island. While she's making sure everything goes according to the recipe, you can't help but laugh at her. She needs her glasses to read the recipe but when she takes the lid of one of the pans, they fog up and she searches blindly for a box of tissues. You walk around the counter to hand her one and ask her what she's cooking. She smiles mischievously and tells you you'll find out in fifteen minutes. She did ask you whether she should know about allergies or diets so you trust her not to serve you something revolting.

She decides everything is going alright and asks you if you want a drink. You'll join her in whatever she's having and follow her back into the living room. She takes a seat on the sofa and unsure how much space you should leave between the two of you, you settle on a chair instead. It's one of those big leather chairs your grandparents have and you want to tuck in your feet to get more comfortable, but think that might be weird. The nerves you thought you lost when Santana, wearing an apron, let you in and told you she needed to check something in the kitchen, are back. Unsure of what to do, you shuffle in your seat and reach down for your glass. You're not used to drinking wine, especially red, but she told you it's very good and you want to show her you can be mature as well.

You compliment her appartment and can't help but ask if it's really hers. She laughs and tells you it is hers, but her parents paid for it and commandeer it whenever they feel like visiting. Most of the time, it's just for a long weekend and they always tell her in advance, so she can make sure she stays somewhere else. Not that they force her out, she just doesn't feel like being around her parents during their getaways. Nobody feels comfortable seeing their parents act smitten, especially not in your home.

You wince, thinking back to your graduation from high school. Your own parents were so proud and couldn't stop smiling the entire day. At the party later that night you're sure they'd had a bit too much to drink and heard (and saw) far more of their affections than any child deserves.

Santana laughs at your reaction, apparently she doesn't need an explanation. You like that about her: she's one of the few people that just seem to _get_ you. It's so relaxing when you don't have to justify your every thought and it makes conversation flow much easier. You ask her some more questions about her parents, what it was like growing up in Florida and so on until she tells you dinner should be ready.

You're strictly forbidden to help her set the table (you've not heard of a single student who actually sets a table, but it suits her) so you just take a seat and watch her scurrying around the kitchen and talking to herself. She doesn't even notice it, which makes it all the more fun. She sends you a half-hearted glare when your chuckles grow too loud, before turning back to make the plates.

If you were just a little bit shallower, you probably would have proposed to Santana the second you swallowed your first bite. It seems pointless to ever eat something she hasn't made. Your expression must be rather telling because she continues eating with a satisfied smile. The recipe is her mother's, she offers. You're surprised, because it looked like she was using an actual cookbook. She shrugs and says it felt weird at first, to use a cookbook her mother wrote, but all her favourites are in it so it would be silly not to.

When both of you are finished, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You're about to start the water to clean them, when Santana tells you not to. You feel guilty letting her do all the work, but when she opens one of the cupboards to show a dishwasher you blush and help her load it.

She makes a big pot of tea and carries some cups back to the sofa. This time, you don't feel as self-conscious as before and take a seat next to her. She asks you how your dance class went earlier today; you mentioned you were nervous because the teacher hates you and you had to show him a piece you had choregraphed with your partner. You're glad to tell her he was surprisingly civil and his criticism was actually constructive for a change. She looks so proud that you feel confident enough to give her the tickets you kept in your purse the entire evening. They're for the recital you have in a couple of weeks, just before winter break. (Normally, you'd invite your parents, but they want to stay home to stay with your little sister who is graduating this year and has too many tests around the same time. You know they feel guilty, but they did see the previous recitals and you understand it's not possible this year.) You explain what the tickets are for and that you hope she'll come. She interrupts you by placing her hand on your arm and telling you she would have anyway. She blushes and tells you she's been trying to get tickets because she wanted to see you and heard you talking about it over the phone. Now it won't be a surprise anymore, but she'll definitely make sure to see you dancing on that stage.

The way your entire being seems to be flooded with warmth amazes you and when you feel the blush settle on your cheeks and ears, you hide behind your tea. Santana seems no less embarrassed and the room turns quiet until her phone buzzes signalling a new message. You tell her it's okay and can't help but wonder who wrote it and what it says exactly because her face is even more flushed than yours was a minute ago and she actually _splutters_. You didn't even know she could do that, but apparently she's not as composed as you thought she was. She taps the screen harsher than necessary before standing up and throwing her phone on the counter when she opens a cupboard to take out some cookies. After she's settled back on the sofa (leaving a bit more room between you than before), she mumbles something about strangling Quinn with her bare hands and how she should mind her own business. You choose not to ask about the text.

You talk some more for the rest of the night, flipping between some of the dumbest television shows to have ever graced the screen and when you you almost fall asleep, Santana gently keeps you from diving face first into her lap. That would've been awkward. You should go home before you actually fall asleep. You've been told you are prone to talking in your sleep, which led to some interesting revelations. (Mrs Smith never treated you the same after you had fallen asleep during her class and apparently told the guy next to you that she had lovely legs.)

Santana seems reluctant to get off the sofa, but when you tell her you should go home she walks you to the door. She must be tired as well; her movement seems less coordinated and you have trouble making out her words. It's only now that you notice how small she really is and you have to resist the sudden urge to wrap her up in a big bear hug. She just looks so cute with that blanket around her because she got cold sometime after dinner. You really need to come up with a plan to talk to her about your feelings because if she continues to act like this... She's doesn't even try and you're quite sure she doesn'even know what she's doing but you don't know how long you can keep this to yourself anymore. Tomorrow you'll call Tina to hold a meeting.

When you've made sure you can withstand the cold New York air, you turn back to Santana to thank her again for dinner and ask if you'll see her Friday. Of course silly, she tells you and nudges your boot with her sock-covered foot. You're relieved and give her a brief hug. You don't know why you do it, but you turn your head just a bit and press a small kiss to her temple. If she notices, she doesn't show it and you're not quite sure what to make of that. Hopefully Tina will be able to help and you'll get some answers this Friday. Suddenly you're not so tired anymore and you're glad it will only be two days.

Maybe the walk home will clear your head.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or its characters. If I did, I'd hire a team of writers far more talented than myself or those morons who are currently being paid to butcher the show.

A/N: Thank you for reading this, it feels realy good to know people are (still) interested in this story. To everyone who has left a review: thank you so much, seeing confirmed in black and white that I managed to write something you enjoy is exhilirating and makes me flail. I'm sorry if I haven't replied to you personally, but I truly appreciate you.  
Last but not least I would like to thank my lovely Beta, who despite being very busy herself still makes time to help me out. I am eternally grateful, and no I'm not exaggerating.

* * *

Chapter 5: Rude interruptions

Santana is disarming.

It might not sound impressive, but it is. All it took was for her to look up and smile at you and suddenly you can breathe again.

Your talk with Tina yesterday was not as helpful as you'd hoped. When you told her what your problem was, she just looked at you and told you to grow a pair and just ask the girl out. You thought she was supposed to be smart and _that's_ all she could come up with?

You just don't know how to go about it and you think she might already know you're gay. Your bag is embroidered with a rather large rainbow and that Sunday you met you were wearing a shirt your sister got you. It has that joke about cherry stems on it, so… yeah. You still don't know how your then 12-year-old sister found that shirt and was able to buy it for you without your parents noticing. In your defense: you were doing laundry that day and since you don't actually wear the shirt that often (or at all), it was the only clean one left.

So unless Santana is completely oblivious to these signs, she knows you're gay-which is a good thing, because you still became friends with her, but she never mentioned it. On the other hand you just think that would have been such an easy way to start the topic you really wanted to talk about. Maybe you should just follow Tina's advice unless you can come up with something better in the next five minutes.

You notice Santana's uncharacteristically quiet today, besides asking how the rest of your week went and if you have plans for the weekend, she hasn't said anything. It's not that unusual, but she's not normally so restless. She keeps shifting in her seat and the stack of coasters that was on your table has been reduced to carefully torn up shreds.

Seeing Santana this nervous is not helping you keep your own anxiety in check, so you just order two drinks and hope you'll both be a bit more composed when you get back. While you're waiting for your drinks, you see her talking on the phone, while gesturing wildly. Judging by the people around her she's using a lot more colourful language than you're used to and you can't help being curious. You know you should respect her privacy, but you don't want to wait any longer and if she doesn't want you to hear what she's saying she can always just go outside. When she sees you making your way back to her, she hisses a few more insults into her phone before hanging up without giving the person on the line a chance to retort.

Just as you're about to ask what that was all about, she starts to speak, only to pale when she sees someone waltzing into the café and, after taking a quick look around, going straight to your table and taking a seat in the only empty chair. She's very pretty, but you immediately get the feeling you don't want to cross this girl. The look she sends Santana would have you cowering underneath the table, but Santana seems more annoyed than anything else. She must be immune or see this look a lot more often. They continue to stare at each other intensely and don't say a single word. You don't understand what's going on and because it seems neither girl is going to offer an explanation, you just turn to the girl who just walked in and introduce yourself.

Before she gets the chance to introduce herself as well, though you're quite certain this must be Quinn, Santana has yanked her from her chair and dragged her off to the restroom. Just before they leave your sight, Santana gives Quinn a push and sends you an apologetic look before following her around the corner. You just sit there, slightly bewildered and you can't help but wonder why Santana seems so determined not to let you speak to her best friend. Did you do something wrong?

With a deep sigh, you stir your hot chocolate until it swirls and almost spilla over the rim of your cup. When you take a sip, you notice the drink has gone cold.

You feel restless and are torn between wanting to go after Santana and Quinn or just leaving the café and calling Santana later to ask what happened. At first you were just startled, but now you're a bit offended as well; she hasn't spared you one word since you came back. On the other hand, Quinn came in rather unexpectedly and whatever she and Santana are discussing at the moment must be urgent and important. It's not like her to just leave you here by yourself like this.

You decide to just wait until they come back and to occupy yourself until then you pick up the book Santana was reading earlier. It's a collection of Neruda's poems, one of her favourites.

(She told you about his life, but said that it didn't really add to his words. They were all she needed to know about him and you decided that would be enough for you as well.)

You recognise some poems and verses from her notes and immediately you feel your tension melt away. You think it's cute how she has circled some sentences or corrected the English translations. You don't really speak Spanish, but you think her translations do the original more justice as well.

The same feeling you had when you saw she still uses the agenda that lead to your meeting, overcomes you when you leaf through the book. However misguided it may be, you can't suppress a sense of intimacy when you're reading through the annotated poems. After reading those and whatever other poems that appeal to you, you want to close the book to put it back. When you do, you see something written on the first page.

To Santana, Happy Valentine's Day

_Love, E_

You slam the cover shut and push the book as far away from you as possible. You know it's stupid, but suddenly you feel like it has deceived you. Someone else gave this to Santana, shared it with her.

Those notes weren't meant for you, the emotions behind them weren't.

Just because you want it to mean something, doesn't mean that it does. You feel so stupid.

Before you get the chance to dwell on it though, you're brought back to the café when someone touches your elbow. The involuntary shiver that runs through you tells you enough. Santana's back; she and Quinn must have finished their talk.

When you think your heartbeat and breathing are close to normal again, you look up and your eyes lock.

Santana is disarming.

* * *

Quinn must have left already, because you don't see her when Santana reclaims her seat. When you ask her, she tells you she had to go. Something about a pre-historic fertility dance, but you doubt that's true. Sometimes Santana says the strangest things.

She doesn't seem as nervous as before, though she still has trouble keeping still. She keeps tapping her legs and plays with a strand of her behind her ear. It takes her three times of opening her mouth before she actually manages to speak.

You don't know exactly how you look right now, but it's probably not attractive. You're just gaping at her, your hands have fallen to your sides and if you don't blink soon, your eyes might run dry. Santana for her part hasn't looked you in the eye or stopped fidgeting with her fingers.

You wait for your brain to kick in and really wish your vocal cords would start cooperating, because the tension is killing you and Santana looks like she's halfway on her way back to the restroom. When you see her twitching, you somehow regain control of your senses and grab her hand, squeezing it gently. That gets her attention and cautiously she looks at you through her eyelashes. She still looks like she might run away at the first signs of danger and so, _so_ adorable. Your lips curl into a smile unconsciously and when the corner of her mouth tilts as well, you're smiling so wide you feel your whole stretching.

Your fingers intertwine and you give her a nod, just once.

You finally have a date with Santana.

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A/N2: If you have a minute, please leave a review. Even (or especially) if you didn't like it.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I'very sorry it took longer than usual to post this chapter and that it's a bit short as well. I'll try to make it up to you with the next chapter, but I can't make any promises. Also I'd like to know if I should change the rating, because while I personally don't think there's anything in here that could shock a 5-year-old, I've been told not everyone shares that opinion.  
Thank you for reading this and letting me know you appreciate it, it makes my day (and yes, I do have friends and a real life (for those who hadn't noticed: I like sarcasm)). So thank you, especially my lovely Beta, who keeps me from floundering.**

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Chapter 6: At Last

When you walk into the café that Friday, you can't shake the feeling that somewhow everyone knows you're not just meeting your friend Santana, but you're going on a _date_ with Santana who is still your friend but hopefully something more as well. Your suspiscions are confirmed when Ian (the owner who keeps pestering you about that cake) throws you a wink before nodding in the direction of your table. You thought you would meet at the café and then go on your date, but apparently Santana had different plans. She's nowhere to be seen which disappoints you but when you walk up to the table, you see she left you one of her pictures. You smile when you realise you'll have to make the same sort of expedition you did several months ago. Now you really can't wait for your date. You don't recognise the picture, but you figure it must be somewhere in the neighbourhood. It's the entrance of a restaurant you think, but she left the name hidden behind a flag. Looks like you're going to an Italian restaurant.

You figure out what restaurant she photographed quite easily; there are only three Italian restaurants near the park and there's just one you've never visited. You feel guilty when you realise how much effort Santana must have put in this date because it's nearly impossible to make reservations on such short notice. Maybe she's been planning this longer than you thought.

You're intimidated when you step into the restaurant fifteen minutes later, with messy hair (that damn wind just _had_ to pick up right before you walked in) and although you did dress up you feel a bit out of place. This place is much fancier than you're used to. Before you get the chance to do some damage control, a waiter comes your way and asks if you're Miss Pierce. You're a bit wary of following him, but when you see Santana all is forgotten.

With he exception of dinner at her place the other week, every time you've seen her was rather casual. You like that she's comfortable enough around you not to care when she's just wearing baggy jeans and a shirt with her hair in a loose bun and her glasses resting on the top of her head because she stopped reading when you walk in. But you can't deny the appeal of Santana in a dress with her hair in loose curls and a look on her face you can't quite name. The waiter quietly leaves you alone and when you're in front of her, she reaches up to place a quick kiss on your cheek. She blushes a bit when she realises what she's done, but you're so glad she did; it gives you an excuse to do the same. She bows her head down when you take a step back and whisper hello. The lily she offers you when she looks back up (where did that even come from?) is beautiful, but you enjoy her shy smile much more.

The table she has reserved is secluded from the rest of the restaurant which you're grateful for. You want to keep tonight for just you and Santana. When she motions for you to sit down, you think nervous, formal Santana is making a come back, so you tell her she looks beautiful. You wish you could find a better word to desribe her, but it's the only one that comes close. She blushes again but her smile turns playful as she tells you she likes your hair. You're slightly mortified when you think how you must look at the moment, but when she leans over to push some locks of hair behind your ear you don't care anymore.

You don't even notice your waiter is back until she giggles and and tells you that you should probably take the menu if you want to eat tonight. When you do, you see him looking between the two of you and you don't like the way he's eyeing her one bit. You're about to say something (honestly, you had no idea you were capable of jealousy or possessiveness before you met Santana), but she surprises you by asking you casually what you'd like as a starter, leaving a small pause before adding 'baby' without looking up from her menu. You are torn between wanting to kiss her senseless and laughing the crestfallen waiter in his face but luckily you have enough self-restraint to act a bit more composed. You look over the menu and just pick the first one, eager for the waiter to leave. She gives her order as well and winks at you when he goes back to the kitchen. She must have found some confidence between the antipasti.

You settle into an easy conversation until your starters arrive, served by a different waiter. You have no idea what 'Prosciutto crudo con pere e parmiggiano' is, but it's delicious and Santana agrees after you insisted she'd try it as well. As you're waiting for the main course, you talk some more and she apologises for her own and Quinn's behaviour last week. She explained Quinn had been pressuring her to ask you out, but she couldn't gather the courage to actually do it. You don't think you've ever smiled this much and because you need to do _something_ to emphasize your point, you take her hand before telling her you wanted to do the same thing for weeks. It's not quite what you want to say, but it's enough for now.

You're glad she doesn't let go of your hand until you're interrupted again by the waiter, and even then she looks a bit disappointed to do so. During dinner you keep throwing her quick glances and smile every time you catch her doing the same.

You take as long as possible eating your 'Mousse al cioccolato amaro con salsa alla menta' because not only does it like taste like heaven, it also means your date is coming to an end.

Santana also seems to take longer than necessary with her dessert which is a small comfort.

When there really was no way we could stall dinner any longer, Santana suddenly asks you if you would like to join her to one of Quinns weird poetry readings. You don't know if the poetry would be weird, or if this was one of those things she say to cover herself for a possible rejection. Like she didn't know you'd probably go with her to pretty much anything.

You could hear Quinn screaming when Santana called her to ask for the adress and had some second thoughts, but if this was a chance to spend more time with her, you'd take it. She kept saying you both could always leave if it turned out to be awful, or just annoy Quinn by talking through the performances, but you think she was excited as well. You feel weird to see Santana in her fancy clothes, waiting for the train on a dingy platform, but she still looked beautiful. You were very thankful for all the other people taking the train as well, since it allowed you to stand very close together without looking strange. It was so cute how she blushes every time the train jolts and she loses her balance, causing her to bump into you.

If Santana hadn't called Quinn to ask for directions, you never would have found this place. It's just another nondescript warehouse, like the ones surrounding it. It doesn't look very inviting, but there are a couple of people smoking on the street and they seem nice. When Santana seems to be a bit hesitant to go inside, you take your chances and reach for her hand so she'll follow you inside.

You don't really get the poetry and are quite disappointed that Quinn's too busy to come over. But it's still the best evening you've had in a long time: Santana doesn't let go of your hand until you're standing in front of your appartment.

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**Please let me know your thoughts.**


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I'm very sorry for the delay, some trouble with technology and other stuff you don't care about. Thank you very much for sticking with the story and I hope you still like it. A special thank you to my awesome Beta who has enough patience to put u with me, which is an admirable quality (and one I'm very thankful for).

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Chapter 7: Trapped

You've been looking forward and dreading this moment since you left the poetry thing. Do you hug, invite her inside? You really want to kiss her and since she asked you out, you guess she wants to kiss you as well, but how? Do you ask or just lean in; maybe you should let her decide? You really hate feeling so lost, especially because it's with Santana.  
It's just that you've never met someone you instantly liked this much only to keep it in for such a long time. This is much more complicated than you're used to, all these feelings.

You keep fiddling with your keys (in your pocket; you've been self-conscious about that since watching Hitch) and clear your throat before lifting your gaze from the floor. You're glad to see that Santana doesn't seem to be faring much better.  
Just as you're about to reach out to her, your heart drops. You halt for a second, hand still in mid-air before you realise that your nightmares are coming true and in an even worse way than you had imagined. After two years of sharing an appartment, you're as familiar with all Broadway and Barbra Streisand classics as you are with the morning routine. Why the hell is Rachel making her way up the stairs when she should be with her boyfriend across town?

Santana is just as surprised (and appalled) as you are and before you can think about it, you've opened the door, shoved her inside and guided her to your bedroom; the only place you know you'll be safe. This is _not _the way you wanted you wanted them to meet.  
You wanted to be dating Santana for a bit longer than a few hours (Are you dating? Or was this just a date and tomorrow it might already be over?), preferably call her your girlfriend, mention that casually to your annoying roommate, and wait for the storm to pass. Then you'd prepare Santana thoroughly; warn her to bring earplugs and not mention anything relating to Broadway, Streisand, or singing/theatre in general when she came over. Until that time, you'd avoid your home like the plague while in her company.  
If you'd not been such a sissy and asked Santana on a date instead of waiting, _you_'d be walking _her_ home and none of this would have happened. As it is, you're in your bedroom with Santana and hiding from Rachel. How was this a good idea?

You turn back to Santana, motion to keep quiet and stumble to your bedside table to turn on a light; you still have to change the bulb in the lamp hanging from the ceiling. When you can see further than two feet, you see the confusion in her eyes and whisper an apology. You gesture towards the bed and tell her you'll be right back. Santana still seems a bit tense and you can't really blame her; this _is_ rather strange after all. You try to explain to her that you didn't think Rachel would be home tonight and you just want to make sure she's in her own room. From her reaction to the few stories you've told her about your intrusive roommate, you'd gathered that she wasn't very excited to meet her either, but you're relieved nevertheless when she nods in understanding. You give her the remote control to your TV and tell her you'll be right back.

When you walk into the living room, you can hear Rachel rummaging in the kitchen. She's probably making her herbal tea with honey, yuck. It still surprises you that for someone who's so concerned about the well-being of her vocal cords, she's still such a loud person. Wouldn't it make more sense to talk less, or at least at a lower volume?  
She jumps a bit when you greet her and when you ask her why she's not with what's-his-face tonight, she just blinks. Then she puts her tea down and is gone before you know it, shouting back a thank , that was easy. You wonder if you should quickly tidy-up the living room, when Santana walks back in. You can't believe how happy it makes you to see her like this, looking around your appartment and a bit sleepy. You really want her to walk around like this a lot more, maybe even wearing your pyjamas. Your smile is wide when you ask if she'd like a drink. She tells you she shouldn't, but takes a seat anyway and tucks her feet under her legs. She must be cold again, so you decide to make some tea.

When you put a cup in front of her and wrap both hands around your own, you apologise again. You feel awful for freaking out like that but you just panicked okay?She tells you it doesn't matter and sips her tea. Coming from any other person you'd think she didn't mean it, but you know she does. Following her example, you slip out of you heels and nestle further into the settle into an easy conversation and two pots of tea and nearly three hours later, you decide to call it a night. Santana's been trying to fight off sleep for an hour, but now she's ready to pass out. You quietly ask her if she'd like to stay over and think that her mutterings are probably a confirmation. You show her the bathroom, and give her a spare toothbrush before going into your room and looking for something she can use as pyjamas. You're about to walk back into the hallway where you keep the extra blankets and pillows, when she runs into you. You laugh a bit, mostly because she tries to, but doesn't really succeed because she's too tired. The best she can manage is a soft chuckle, followed by a long yawn. You tell her you've put some clothes for her on the bed and you're going to brush your teeth and will see her tomorrow. She sends you a confused look and you gesture to the living room, telling her you'll sleep on the sofa. She seems disappointed, but you're still very aware of your sleep-induced confessions and tendency to move around a lot as well. Not really a situation you want to find yourself in with Santana in the same bed.

You tell her goodnight and go into the bathroom. You avoid looking into the mirror because you know you probably look exhausted and you're disappointed you still don't have the guts to really talk to Santana. You didn't even kiss her or thank her for the date, which is rather rude now that you think about it. You sigh, rinse your mouth and decide you should make sure she's comfortable and you can thank her at the same time.

You feel weird knocking on your own door and try to come up with something to say before walking in. Santana's still standing near the bed, wearing your dance clothes from high school. You thought they might fit her better, but they're slightly too big. She looks a bit confused why you're back again, but when you tell her why you came back, she blushes and looks at the floor. You can't really hear her response, so you walk closer and ask her if she'd repeat it. She looks you right in the eyes when she tells you she really enjoyed tonight as well. It looks like she wants to say something else, but no more words come out. You make the mistake of looking into her eyes then and, before you've even processed the relative insanity of it, you're kissing her.

You feel a bit like you did when you first saw her; breathless, curious, but also very happy. You're kissing Santana after you had a date with her and she's kissing you back. It's sensory overload and not exactly what you had in mind with a goodnight-kiss, but you don't care.  
You don't care because when you thought of kissing her like this, you couldn't get it right. You thought you'd be more prepared because you've been close to her before, seen her and can recognise her scent across a crowded café, but this is just…  
When Santana pulls back for air, interrupting your moment of paradise and thoughts, you realise your vision is marred by black spots and your lungs are painfully trying to restore the current lack of oxygen. Her chest is heaving, cheeks flushed and her lips are puffy, but you still think she's the most beautiful she's ever looked. You don't deny her when she asks you to sleep here, with her. You don't have to think about it; even though your entire body is still tingling, you know you're both too tired to do anything but sleep tonight and you want to be close to her. She smiles wide when you agree and asks which side you prefer. (You never really understood why people choose sides, especially when they're not used to sharing a bed. You just get in bed, curl up until you're comfortable and, more often than not, awake at the other side of the bed (or the foot of the bed from time to time).) You shrug and tell her whichever side is all right with you. When you get in bed, you keep telling yourself not to talk in your sleep and stay well away from Santana during the night to prevent further embarrassment. Apparently Santana has different ideas, because just as you're about to drift off, you feel her moving closer until she's pressed into your side. You quietly ask her if she's still awake, but your only response is some deep breathing. Maybe you'll stay awake tonight.

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A/N: sorry to bother you again, but please let me know what you think? And if you have the time, maybe give my other stories a chance? Sorry for this shameless display of self-promotion, but I'd like to know what you think of it.


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm posting this a bit earlier than anticipated, but I'm sure you'll forgive me. The next update might take a bit longer since I have some studying to catch up on and I won't have my computer with me this weekend. So really this is just a way to appease you in advance.**

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Chapter 8: Not fair

You're disappointed to wake up the next morning. You're sure you just had the best dream ever and if you're waking up that means you fell asleep. That means you probably scared Santana to death with your crazy subconsious. Santana! Suddenly your eyes are wide open and you have the urge to jump out of bed.

It takes a few seconds for you to realise that despite opening you eyes, you still can't see very much because your face is covered in something. Something soft and nice and dark that smells like heaven. You take a deep breath and try to free yourself from the mass of hair threatening to suffocate you. To you horror, you find out that during the night you ended up spooning Santana and pulling back your hands would mean to wake her up. Your right arm rests loosely on her hip but you can't really feel your left, which probably means that… Yep, you are so screwed. You turn your head to look at the clock on the wall behind you and decide you should probably try to sleep a bit more. It's still early and you don't want to wake her up yet. Besides, it's also very nice to be this close and not have to worry about possibly freaking her out. Maybe you can come up with a plan to get your hand back in the meantime.

When you wake up again an hour later, you're relieved to find out you have regained feeling in your left arm. You yawn widely and want to stay in the comforting warmth of your blankets when you hear a soft giggle from the other side of the bed. Once again your eyes fly open and this time you bolt upright, now unhindered by another body. You thank every god you've ever heard of that you removed your make-up last night and your hair is simply unable to be anything but straight. This way the chances of looking like a zombie are slim.

You clear your throat a few times before looking over to her and wishing her a good morning. It still sounds scratchy (like you're secretly a chain-smoker), but it makes her laugh again so you can't feel bad about it. She's at the foot of the bed, with a book in her lap and she looks so comfortable you can't help but think you might still be dreaming. What other way is there to explain the way she looks when she just woke up? If you weren't so in love with her, you'd probably be annoyed by her perfection.

She returns your good morning and holds up the book she was reading, explaining she woke up and didn't want to just walk around your appartment. You rush to tell her she can, but secretly you're glad she didn't. When she tells you she didn't expect you to be so cruel, you're a bit thrown until you realise she's referring to the book. It was a gift from your aunt who thought it would be funny. It kind of is, but you always feel guilty for laughing so you haven't opened it in a while. Should it be amusing to watch an army of bunnies try to come up with the most ingenious ways to kill themslves?

She seems to think so, because a few seconds later she tells you her favourite is the one with the Sphinx of Giza. You blush a bit, glad she doesn't really think you're cruel or worse, childish. Just as you're about to point out your favourite, you're startled by the sound of your doorbell. For a second you hope Rachel will get it, but then you remember she's not home and reluctantly leave the bed. You grab a sweatshirt from the back of a chair while you make your way to the door and hope it's just a delivery or something. What you see when you open the door though, is definitely _not _a delivery guy. Unless your father went through a recent career change.

* * *

You swear you must have been some kind of criminal in a past life to deserve this. You just wanted a date with Santana, kiss her, go home and spend the rest of the weekend on cloud nine. No such luck, although it wasn't that bad that she stayed over (not at all).

Still shocked by his sudden appearnce, you haven't said a word to your dad or made an attempt to let him in. What is he even doing here?

Ignoring your less than enthusiastic behaviour, he wraps you up in a crushing hug and lifts you off the ground for a couple of seconds before giving you three quick kisses on your cheeks (not your favourite of greetings, damn those Dutch manners).

You stutter when you ask him why he showed up on your doorstep and lead him to the sofa in the living room. He tells you he had to be in the city for work yesterday and decided to stay the weekend so he could see you. Normally this would have you jumping for joy, but right now it just makes you nevous. You try to think of a way to get him out of here before Santana comes in to make sure you haven't been killed when you opened the door. But before you get the chance, he stands up and asks if he can use the toilet. While he makes his way across the living room you tell him you'll make him some coffee. Just because you can't remember a time you wanted to see your dad less, doesn't mean you shouldn't be polite.

You're surprised when not a minute later you hear footsteps in the living room, before coming towards the kitchen. You make sure the milk has a nice layer of foam before pouring it into the cup of coffee and pull open a drawer for a spoon. Just because you don't drink it, doesn't mean you don't know how to make coffee. When you turn around, you almost drop the cup because it's Santana sitting at the breakfast bar, not your dad. This just keeps getting better.

You know there is no possible way to get out of this situation, so you just hand Santana the coffee and slide the sugar over. She blushes a bit when she tells you she couldn't stay in bed any longer because she smelt coffee. You smile at her and make a mental note to make sure you always have coffee in case she comes over. Since you're both up you might as well have breakfast, so you ask her what she would like.

Just as she's about to answer you hear your father laugh from the living room. You're slightly insulted, but Santana practically falls off her stool when she notices there's another person in the appartment. One that looks an awful lot like you. The looks she sends you is close to terrified and you feel bad that you didn't warn her, but you just woke up and this is all a bit too much for you.

You take a deep breath before slapping yourself across the face so you'll focus. You ask your dad to take a seat and turn to make him his coffee. When you give it to him, you clear your throat and introduce him to Santana, who still looks scared, but smiles bravely and offers her hand. Your dad has always been friendly, but you still hold your breath for the five seconds it takes for him to take it. You can see the wheels turning in his head, but he tells her to call him Thomas and takes a sip from his coffee, wincing when he notices he forgot the sugar.

You really love your father when he asks you for a newspaper and not who Santana is or what she's doing here for breakfast. When you tell him you don't have a subscription to a newspaper, he just shakes his head and tells you he'll be back in twenty minutes. You really, _really_ love your dad right now.

* * *

Santana is the first to break the silence, after she's finished her coffee at a snail's pace. You kind of expect her to tell you she doesn't think she'll see you again this Friday, but she surprises you once again.

It's the first time she's acknowledged the existence of her secret notes and you can't describe how it makes you feel. You try to tell her, but after opening your mouth several times without saying anything you remember you're not that great with words. Just before your lips touch hers, you wonder if you should feel guilty about attacking her like this (again), but then all thoughts halt. Unlike last night, you let her command the pace, pleasantly surprised when she keeps it soft and slow. Languid. It is without a doubt your favourite kiss, ever.

You break the kiss when you hear an ambulance rushing by on the street and the feeling in your chest expands when you open your eyes. You're still so close all you can see are her eyes. First the lids, twitching slightly; then the lashes, casting soft shadows on her cheekbones and then you can see her eyes, darker, deeper and more open than you've ever seen.

Neither of you pull back just yet, content to just look. You never understood why people would go on about eyes being windows to the soul, and you still don't actually, but you do feel like you catch a glimpse. It's fleeting, but already more than you think you can handle. It's the first time you see the tiny freckle over her right eyebrow and you want so badly to press your lips against it. You can't resist and when you hear her content sigh, you don't feel bad pressing soft, careful kisses on her eyelids, the corner of her mouth and lastly her jaw, just below her ear.

It's the first time it's more than a moment where it's just Santana and you, the rest of the world vague and unimportant. You want these moments to last and appear more often.

_I don't think I've ever been this happy to be scared, and I'm starting to think it's all part of something bigger. Maybe the biggest I've come across. _

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**A/N: So, I hope you liked the chapter. Thank you once again for reading, reviewing or letting me know you like the story in other ways. Special thank you to my awesome Beta, who is currently enjoying Thanksgiving I believe. Happy Thanksgiving to all others across the pond and to those who don't celebrate it: who cares about a silly parade and a game of total brutality and stupidity (yes, I'm talking about American 'football'. I doubt Fifa and the rest of the world think that's what you're playing in those tights. Please forgive me my inability to understand this lovely game). That was a joke, I'm sure it's a wonderful holiday and I don't mean to offend it (or its celebrators (is that a word?)) in any way.**_  
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	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I'm terribly sorry for the wait (and the short chapter), but if I want to pass my exams I do have to study. Maybe I'll be able to write something around Christmas, but I'm afraid I can't manage it any sooner, so I'm sorry. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy and thank you for reading.  
Special thank you to my awesome Beta!**

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Chapter 9: Transition

The both of you just sit there for a while. There's no rush and you don't need to talk, you can just sit here a little longer. You know in a few minutes you'll have to move because your dad's coming back, but you can't make yourself and don't want to. When she rests her head on your shoulder, you can hear her humming softly. You don't recognise the song but don't ask for it, afraid she might stop. She does however, but only after leaving a barely noticable kiss on your collarbone.

When she turns away and slips off the stool, you're glad she can't see your face; you always had trouble keeping your emotions private. She takes her empty coffee cup to the sink to rinse it out; you'd tell her she doesn't have to, but she's already done and you don't think she would have listened to you anyway.

She's not really looking at you when she says she should probably get dressed. You don't want her to, but as much as you'd like to, the two of you can't laze around your appartment all day. Your dad's here, Rachel will probably turn up during the day and you feel like you should maybe talk a bit before doing things like that. You think you and Santana are on the same page, but it's good to have some kind of confirmation and now's not the time to get into it.

Back in your bedroom, you give her a towel and some clean clothes for after her shower. It might look a bit weird for her to walk home in the dress and heels from last night.

Just as Santana's disapeared behind the bathroom door, the bell rings. You sigh, but you're also glad your dad took his time. He's been gone for at least 45 minutes. Sometimes you wonder why you didn't inherit his thoughfulness, but then again: you did get a lot of his other traits.

He seems surprised to notice Santana's no longer with you, but hands you a bag with some croissants and a mix for pancakes anyway before taking the seat Santana left and folding out his paper. You're a bit confused, does he really expect you to make him pancakes? He knows how you are with cooking. You put the bag on the worktop and turn to him with raised eyebrows. He just waves you off and tells you guests should have breakfast before walking out the door. You wish you could make a quip about him not being a guest, but then Santana walks into the living room. Right. _That_ guest.

You're still standing there, wondering how you can save yourself from further embarrassment when she joins you in the kitchen and asks if she can help. You're glad you have at least _some_ kind of filter and didn't actually voice your immediate thought of 'Marry me?'.

Your duty is to measure everything (which means enough water for the contents of the box) and watch Santana mix it and baking the first few pancakes. When your dad clears his throat you almost throw the bowl in the air (the least you can do is make sure there aren't any lumps in the batter) before realising it's bad manners to let a guest make their own breakfast. With some help, the second pancake makes it to the stack of Santana's perfectly made pancakes. It's not as nice as hers, but at least edible (you hope). Maybe next time you'll try flipping them in the air. You always wanted to learn after seeing Tina's mother accidentally flipping one too high and it got stuck on the ceiling. Their dog wouldn't leave its spot on the kitchen floor for half an hour. Although Rachel probably wouldn't let you for that exact reason.

But now there's a nice stack of pancakes and after going through some cupboards, you find some syrup and chocolate sprinkles (thank you oma De Jong! It's always a nice surprise when she sends you a box filled with cookies and other treats. You may have a slight addiction to 'stroopwafels'). Maybe you should get some more stuff to put on pancakes. But at least your father's pleased enough to put his paper away. Only after seeing him and Santana swallow their first bite without any notable reservations, you dare to try one as well.

When you see her start to collect your plates, you want to step in but your dad's too fast and takes them from her. She blushes a bit and starts fidgeting with the hem of her shirt (you know it's yours, but it looks better on her and you're not sure you want it back). You don't know if you should invite her to sit in the living room; you're not completely comfortable with your father still in the appartment. So when her phone goes off, you're kind of glad for the interruption. She smiles apologetically as she answers it and walks into the hallway. You don't feel like talking to your dad right now, so you go to your bedroom. Might as well get dressed.

Ten minutes later you walk back into the kitchen to find your dad and Santana laughing. You're pleased that they seem to get along, but your smile fades when you find out what they were lauging about. Just because he hasn't yet asked you about her, doesn't mean he has no idea what your sleep-over with Santana means and he's set on embarrassing you with some childhood anecdotes. You're blushing when you hear the story, but you can't help feeling strangely pleased at the same time: it's the first time your dad's done this.

When their laughter trails off, your dad takes pity on you and asks if you had plans for today. You send a furtive glance at Santana, but you know you should do something with your father now that he's here. You're grateful when she picks up on your dilemma and offers that she should head home anyway; she has to finish a paper before Monday.

You walk her out, but don't get the chance to talk to her because your dad follows behind you to put on his coat as well. He wants you to show him around. The three of you leave the appartment and once outside you split ways.

When you're walking around the park a few minutes later, you feel your phone vibrating. You can't suppress the grin that settles on your lips as you read the message. Your dad just chuckles, but doesn't ask any questions. But then again, he doesn't have to.

* * *

**To prevent any confusion: 'oma' means 'grandma' in Dutch and 'stroopwafels' are heaven. For those poor, unfortunate souls that have yet to experience one of the best inventions of all time: imagine caramel between two wafers and you're starting to get close.**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: An Audience

You spent all of last Saturday showing your father around and catching up. Whenever you call your parents, your mother commandeers the phone so it's been a while since you were able to talk to him. You're glad to find out how everyone is, laugh along with him when he tells you about the plans your mother's made for Christmas and feel surprisingly at ease when he mentions Santana. You're about to go back home when he throws it out casually. Tell your girlfriend I said hi. Both your smiles are so big you don't have the heart to tell him she's not your girlfriend… yet.

It's been a few days since you saw Santana, though you've been texting and calling quite regularly. There's an almost constant smile on your face; even your self-absorbed roommate has started to notice. You're not _technically_ lying when you tell her you're just excited for the recital this week; it's just not the sole reason for your exuberance.

You've hardly had more than five consecutive hours of sleep this week, yet you've never felt more energetic. You practically fly through practices, even the snide comments from some of the other students can't put you down and to your joy you've finally figured out how to work with your teacher. Maybe it won't be so bad if you have to follow another one of his classes next semester. But first you have to make sure your performance tomorrow night is impeccable, not in the least because you'll have an audience to impress. You're not comfortable showing people your ideas, or having them watch you during practice, but the knowledge that you're being watched when you _perform_, is soothing somehow. It's a completely different mindset and you wouldn't be able to push your limits if there's no one to see it.

But more importantly, you want Santana to see it. You feel like you've come to know her quite well; through pictures, words, gestures. You've been so focused on getting to know her, that only just realised you haven't been quite so forthcoming in talking about your own life. That might be a good thing, because you feel like there's not much worth telling, but you'd like her to know what it is that you do, passionately. And words would be insufficient to express that driving force and emotion.

So you asked her, again, for confirmation, to come to your recital this Friday and maybe join you for drinks after the show. She told you she already had the tickets waiting for her and she'd make sure Quinn got lost afterwards.

So here you are, stretching and going through the choreography in your head. The other dancers as just as nervous, but you also feel that familiar excitement starting to pick up. As soon as your feet touch that stage, you know you'll be out of this world. You can't wait.

* * *

You can't imagine a better way to start your break. The lights are blinding, your lungs hurt and you can only faintly hear the roaring applause because you're so winded. You take your bows with the others, step forward with your partner when it's your turn and for the first time tonight, you look into the audience. You can only make out shapes and you have no idea where she could be seated, but you broaden your smile none the less.

Back in the dressing room, you share high fives, congratulate some friends on their performance and have trouble to keep from bouncing around. You're eager to see Santana and find out what she thought. You told her a bit about your assignment, but it always seems so pointless to _talk_ about dancing; it doesn't come close.

When you want to take out your bag to take a shower, your name gets called through the room. You have no idea what the problem could be, but when you see the smug smile from one of your friends, you think you know. You're surprised when you first see short blonde hair though, until Quinn moves further inside to congratulate you. You're a bit overwhelmed: she's only seen you twice before and you never really talked. But she seems almost as elated as the others surrounding you, so you don't hold back when she pulls you in for a hug. It doesn't last long though, because a few seconds later you hear a distinctive voice telling her to let you go so you can breathe. She sounds a bit annoyed, but when you look behind the cheery blonde, Santana is all smiles. You still can't get over how cute her dimples are. She pushes her friend aside, but seems a bit lost on how to proceed just as quickly. You don't blame her; you haven't seen each other in a week and left things rather open. You want to hug her as well, but you're suddenly very aware that you're still sweaty and dressed in little more than underwear. Around you people are still bustling about, talking in loud voices.

After a nudge from Quinn, she presents a bouquet of yellow alstroemerias but once again can't meet your eyes when she does. You decide to ignore the fact that you're still somewhat undressed, not really dating her and more likely than not being watched by at least a dozen people and reach out to kiss her. You haven't in approximately 153 hours and it just seems like such a waste. She's not as shy as you'd expect, but you don't want to push you luck and pull back much sooner than you'd like. You can see the nerves and planned greeting disappear and for a small moment you feel like you did last week, content and calm.

* * *

Quinn proves more difficult to ditch than Santana had led you to believe, but you find that you don't really mind. She enjoys teasing Santana and is far less intimidating than you thought. The three of you share a booth at some bar that's filled with a very loud group of guys celebrating a bachelor party. The only reason you know this is because one of them drops on the seat next to you and starts going on about how he didn't plan for this to happen, only realising halfway through some mortifying story about strippers and blindfolds that you are not his best man. Let's just say you're glad you're not his fiancée for more than one reason.

When Quinn gets a call and asks you to join her and some friends to a club, you don't want to be rude an decline, but you don't really feel like going. Luckily Santana seems to feel the same way and answers for the both of you. She walks her out and comes back with new drinks. To celebrate, she says, the first of many succesful performances still to come. You blush a bit and tell her you appreciate it very much that she came to see you. She just shrugs like it's no big deal, but you know it is. Especially since she came to the dressing room to see you after the performance. And she brought you flowers. That seems like more than just a supportive friend and you want to know how much more exactly. A random bar doesn't seem like the right place to discuss that though, so you just take another sip of your drink. You talk some more about the other performances from tonight; you've only caught glimpses from backstage.

After finishing your drink, you ask her if she'd like another or rather go home. She gets up as well and reaches for her coat, saying she'd like to take a walk. You doubt that's true since she can't stand the cold, but don't argue and follow her to the door. When you pass the bar, you remember your flowers and wait for the bartender to get them from the back. One of the guys from the bachelor party tries to chat you up as you wait, but smiles resignedly when he sees the flowers and wishes you a good night. You smile and wish him a good night in return when you feel someone tugging on your sleeve. Santana sends him a glare before asking you if you're ready to go and you can't stop your smile. Apparently you're not the only one who's a bit possesive.

* * *

You don't know whether to be grateful for the cold or not because you're quite sure you haven't been able to feel your toes for at least fifteen minutes, but Santana looks so cute with her scarf practically wrapped around her head. Your left side is slightly warmer because she keeps drawing closer to you until you decide to be brave again and fully pull her into your side. You think she smiles up at you, but the scarf obscures the best part of her face so you can't be sure. You haven't spoken much since you left the bar, but that's all right. You never really spoke about you friendship either but you know you're friends. Maybe this is the same thing? It just seems so unlikely… Maybe you should try talking to Tina again, although seeing how much help she was last time, maybe not. It's just so _scary_ to try and talk about it with Santana, which would make most sense. You don't want to scare her off by telling her you're in love with her and have been for quite some time. Just because she asked you out on a date, doesn't mean she feels the same way. You tend to let your emotions run your actions, but you don't think you've ever had emotions this strong so you don't know what you should do. Asking her out on a date might be a good place to start.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Santana tells you she's almost home. You didn't even notice you'd been walking that long. You can see her building down the street and you think you can even see part of an ostentatious Christmas tree in the lobby.

You don't want to impose, so you stop outside the door and untangle your arm from Santana's.

You know she's leaving tomorrow and won't be back before the new year and neither will you. You'll miss her. You'd hoped that somehow, miraculously, you'd get to celebrate New Year's Eve with her. If you weren't such a coward, maybe you could have.

She wishes you a merry Christmas and thanks you for tonight. She fidgets with the fray fom her scarf a bit and you realise she doesn't want to go either. But you don't really have a choice, so you just wish her happy holidays and thank her for coming with you tonight. You hug her and turn around before you say something else, something you might regret.

You're almost at the corner when you hear footsteps coming up behind you and before you have a chance to brace yourself, you're being turned around again and Santana's kissing you.

It's nothing like the peck you gave her in the dressing room or that kiss you shared in the kitchen. It's urgent, demanding and doesn't nearly last long enough.

You're really starting to love her lips, the way she already seems to be slightly out of breath before she actually kisses you and the little noises she makes. It's not fair that you'll have to miss all that over the next two weeks, but you'll take what she'll give you. And she does, she gives. In the middle of a deserted street and practically freezing, she gives.

* * *

When you get home, you walk straight to your bedroom. Maybe you'll dream of that kiss all night if you can go to sleep right away. As you step out of your jeans, you see something sticking out your back pocket. You take it out and immediately feel your legs give in. There are tears streaming down your face, but you're laughing at the same time. Now you know why you couldn't see her at first when she came to you after the show.

In your hands is the first ever portrait by Santana Lopez.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked the chapter. I was in a bit of a hurry while writing this and thought my Beta might like some time to enjoy the holidays without looking through this, so I apologise for all the mistakes. Have a very merry Christmas and if you don't celebrate it: have a lovely weekend and enjoy the day off.  
I'not making any promises for a next update because I'm being kidnapped by my family and still have some exams to prepare for. If you have any suggestions, questions or thoughts in general, please let me know.**


	11. A thousand aplogies and Happy new year

Author's note

You can kill me later, but I thought it might be better to tell you in advance that I won't be able to update this story for a while. I hate it as much as you do to find out an udate is actually an author's note with bad news, so I apologise. I am just stressed out at the moment and can't clear my head enough to write something satisfactory.

If you have some ideas for the story or suggestions how it should progress, please let me know and I'll try my best to get back to you as fast as I can. Incidentally, I hope you'll have a wonderful new year!

Again, I'm sorry to disappoint and hopefully, I'll be able to make it better in a few weeks (yes, I know I'm cruel to take such a long time but I wouldn't do it if I thought it wasn't necessary).


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you for sticking with the story and showing your appreciation! Hopefully I'll be able to write a bit more regularly but I can't make any promises. Thanks to my lovely Beta, you're a great help.**

* * *

Chapter 11: Far Away

Since you moved out and to New York, it's been hard for you to get into the mood to celebrate Christmas. There's no way to miss all the lights, decorated trees, cheesy songs on the radio and passive-aggressive remarks from Rachel about Hannukah. But the excitement from when you were little is gone.

Now, you no longer feel like waiting up for Santa or setting three alarms across the room for six in the morning so you'll be the first downstairs to see which presents were waiting underneath the tree (it was devastating and a relief to find out there was no fat man in a red suit delivering presents; you were starting to doubt yourself because you never caught him). You still enjoy making cookies with your mother (actually, you just eat the dough when she's not looking), seeing your family and playing games, outside or in front of the fire. But you don't really need a holiday to do all that.

This year, you're even more distracted than usual and the only one not to comment on it, is your father. You're glad he hasn't said anything to your mother or sister because you'd never hear the end of it. It's hard enough knowing Santana's over 1000 miles away without having to be reminded every five minutes.

Some nights you just lie on the floor, facing the fire, with a blanket covering your legs and read a book. You never knew how many books your parents had, but over the last few months you grew more perceptive in that aspect. It's a pleasant surprise to find an old, dusty edition of Shakespeare's plays. You take your time to find the source of some of Santana's favourite qoutes and smile when you think of how she found them in the first place. It's easy to picture her with a messy ponytail and glasses, reading scenes out loud and scribbling in a notebook.

* * *

The night before you left, you couldn't find sleep. You just laid awake, going over the evening, fiddling with your phone and contemplating the merits of calling. You decided not to; it wouldn't make it any easier to get on the plane the next morning. But when it was 5 am and you still were nowhere near sleepy, you got out of bed, wrote a letter for the first time in years and left the appartment. It was a little creepy to walk around when every sane person was in a warm bed but you couldn't leave without giving her at least a glimpse of your feelings after she so bravely expressed her own.

Your pleasant thoughts of Santana are rudely interrupted by your sister who decides the most effective way to alert you to the fact that dinner's ready is to throw a pillow to your head. And to think you've missed her… But dinner is very nice; your mother's slaving in the kitchen has certainly paid off and you can slowly feel yourself relax and join the others in their excitement for tonight. You don't do anything special but the Christmas spirit from when you were younger finally takes over and for the first time since you came back, you don't flee upstairs afterwards.

* * *

The last candles are flickering, your sister's fallen asleep against your shouder and you're not sure whether your mother has as well, or if she's just very interested in her new book. The conversation with your dad halts more often and increasingly longer but you're too comfortable to admit defeat and go to bed. You'll go when you run out of wood to throw on the fire, maybe. When your mother suddenly jerks upright in her seat, your sister grumbles something incoherent and tries to turn around, away from the light. Instead, she somehow manages to roll off the sofa and after cursing no one in particular, stomps towards the stairs. Your mother presses a kiss to your forehead and follows her up, leaving you with your father and Lord T, who has quickly taken the seat vacated by your sister. Looks like you're not getting up anytime soon.

You pick up "A Christmas Carol" and look through the illustrations. You're startled when your father gets up and starts rummaging around behind his chair. He just shushes you when you ask what he's doing and eventually re-emerges with a triumphant shout. In his hands is a small, flat box and you wonder why he didn't put it with the other presents. He doesn't say anything when he hands it to you and you're too curious to ask anymore questions. When you've carefully removed the wrapping paper, your breath hitches. You know that handwriting.

Your father squeezes your shoulder, smiles and with a final Merry Christmas, he's gone as well.

It's hard to open the envelope with slightly shaking hands, but you manage.

_Dear Brittany,_

_It's been a strange dream, these last few months. Or maybe you finally woke me up, who can tell? In any case I'm grateful for the turn my life has taken since you walked into it. I might not always be able to express it they way I should, the way you deserve, but I am. Always. Just like you're in my thoughts._

_It was hard, leaving New York and you, but when I found your letter I felt infinitely better. I don't think I want to know how it turned up on my doorstep that early, but I'm glad it did._

_If it hadn't, I'm afraid I might have gone crazy. I knew you wouldn't call or something like that, because it wouldn't be enough. By leaving me that letter, I knew I made the right decision and that you understood. I must have read it at least twenty times already: on my way to the airport, in the plane and in the back of my parents car. They've been looking at me strangely since I landed. I guess they're not used to seeing me smiling so much. Seeing you so frank, also gave me the courage to go through with my plan. Will you thank your father for me when you see him? He promised to make sure you wouldn't find this before Christmas and that you'd be alone._

_I always get emotional when I'm around my family too long (which means longer than three hours), it must be contagious. So make sure you're alone before reading this and please forgive me for acting like one of Jane Austen's so-called heroines facing the final pages._

_Thank you. For being kind, for knowing me somehow. For always surprising me, taking me on trips through your mind. For your endless trust and faith. For another story, every day. For your honesty and patience. But most of all, for letting me love you and loving me in return._

_And I in these lines say:  
Like this I want you, love,  
love, Like this I love you,  
as you dress  
and how your hair lifts up  
and how your mouth smiles,  
light as the water  
of the spring upon the pure stones,  
Like this I love you, beloved._

_Pablo Neruda_

_PS: I took the liberty of putting some things in here, I hope you won't mind._

You quickly wipe the tears away, before they ruin her letter any further. It's unbelievable how she can make your heart grow with each word.

You're suddenly exhausted and just want to go to bed, but the box is still in your lap. There's no way whatever is in that box will mean half as much to you as that letter, but you're still curious. After pushing aside some of the strange stuff filling the box, you can't help but smile.

It hasn't yet lost its slight smell of leather, its edges are still sharp, and it's a dark blue instead of black, but it's undeniably one of Santana's agendas. You'll take a good look at it tomorrow, but can't help flipping through it briefly. Your smile only grows when you see the note for the 4th of January: _dinner with my girlfriend, 19:00._

* * *

**Please share your thoughts on the chapter and what you'd like to happen next. Have a great weekend!**


	13. Chapter 12

A/N: This is a repost of last Friday (?) when I felt it was not nearly good enough to bother you with. Still not sure about that, but hopefully the next chapter will be able to make up for it.  
Thank you all for (still) reading the story and showing your support; I really do appreciate it.  
No one hates me as much for delaying this story as much as I do and I apologise for it. I'll try not to let it happen again.  
A special thanks to my lovely Beta, I can't properly express my gratitude for your help.

* * *

Chapter 12: Slow (part 1)

You never were one of those Valentine's Day enthusiasts, but this year you think it's one of the greatest gifts Catholic myths have ever bestowed on mankind. You think Santana's badly hidden giddiness might have something to do with that. She thinks she's being sneaky but everytime you talk to her, it somehow manages to come up. So you've been warned: your girlfriend (_girlfriend_, you're still getting used to the wave of excitement and awe washing over you everytime you think about it) expects you to surprise her.

Because this is Santana you know it'll have to be something better than some chocolates and a romantic movie after dinner, but you're not sure what. It certainly doesn't help that in the back of your mind you're constantly reminded of the fact that you're not the first person to celebrate Valentine's Day with Santana. You just want to make sure that this Valentine's Day will set a new standard and all the ones preceding will pale in comparison.

You've been pacing the appartment all day while talking to yourself. You just want to make sure everything's in order for tonight so you keep going over your mental checklist while browsing the Internet for last-minute tips. That last part surprisingly helps you to calm down. Who would have thought you're actually more capable than most of those people to plan a romatic night for your girlfriend? You called Quinn earlier to ask for her help and she's on board so that's one thing you don't have to worry about. With one more glance at the clock you decide it's time to get dressed and start your Valentine's Day Surprise Spectacular!

You may need to think of a better name.

* * *

A little over an hour later you step inside an intimidating building, looking around for some sort of floor plan so you won't have to wander around too long. You called Santana earlier, pretending to be oblivious to what day it is and asked what she was doing. You weren't surprised when she told you she was in the library, studying. Such a little nerd, but a cute one. But that's how you know which section she is in so a few minutes later you make your way through rows and rows of books and the occasional reading table. You're glad you're not required to do as much studying as Santana but it doesn't seem that bad to spend so much time here. You like the quiet mystery of libraries, although this one is too big and busy to really be mysterious.

When you walk up to her, you're glad she's facing the other way so your surprise won't be spoiled. By the looks of it, she's listening to some music while making notes and flipping through several enormous books. You take another look around to make sure you won't disturb anyone close by before covering her eyes with your hands. It's supposed to be intimidating - you know she likes to think it is - but it's mostly funny and endearing how quick her posture changes and the way she snaps at whoever thought it's appropriate to jump on her like this because she's about to go all… You can't contain your laughter anymore and before she gets even more worked up, you drop your hands to her shoulders for a soft squeeze and press a kiss to her cheek. Happy Valentine's Day, baby.

She's blushing when she turns her head enough to return the gesture and you can cross the first thing off your list: surprise Santana.

You want to take a seat next to her, but you're hindered by your bag. You slide it off and before you forget all about it, open it up to take out the flowers you bought on your way over. You were planning to skip that cliché but the poor vendor looked so happy when you stopped to admire a gorgeous bouquet of amaryllis and roses you couldn't just walk out. That bouquet was too expensive though, so you settled for some tulips instead. They always make you happy because they remind you of spring and by the way Santana's eyes light up, you made the right choice. Two seconds later you can cross the second item off your list: kiss Santana (properly). You're also still getting used to that but you don't mind one bit.

* * *

You help Santana return the books and gather her things so you can start with the next step in your Valentine's Day Surprise Spectacular!, but just as you're about to leave she surprises you instead. You can see she's nervous as she's digging around in her bag and when she comes up with an envelope you can't help getting excited. The last time she wrote you a letter was unforgettable and you still read it when you can't see her for a few days. Not that you need to, but you like reading the words engraved in your heart.

She explains that she's been carrying it around all day because she wasn't sure if you had any plans and she wanted to give it in person. You roll your eyes at her (a habit you've picked up from a person who shall remain nameless) because she couldn't seriously think you _wouldn't_ have anything planned with all the hints she's been dropping over the past few days. She just shrugs at that and gives you the envelope, telling you to save it for later. She wants you to read it on your own. Now you're really curious to see what's inside but respect her wish and put it in your own bag before standing up and taking her hand in yours, kissing each knuckle as you start walking towards the exit.

Once outside you notice a thin layer of snow covering the streets while small flakes are swirling down. The wind makes it even colder but before it can fully register, Santana has linked her arm in yours, shoving her hand in your pocket and clinging to your side. You still don't understand how she can be cold in her coat, scarf and hat but you have no objections to her using you as her personal heater. Even when you're in the train home she refuses to let you go which makes you smile even wider, ignoring some of the looks thrown your way. You almost start to think she fell asleep when she nudges your shoulder and asks where you're going; you just smile and tell her it's a surprise. She sends you a half-hearted glare but doesn't push it and just settles back on your shoulder, humming a song so softly you think you're not supposed to hear.

When you started planning today, you were panicking because all the restaurants you wanted to take her were already booked and you thought the world would end. But then you talked to some of your friends (Tina was helpful for a change) and figured it might have been a good thing. Apparently, most people just want to be together on Valentine's Day, not surrounded by other couples in a noisy restaurant. Isn't that revolutionary? But that meant you'd eat in tonight, leaving the question of cooking. You're getting better, but you would really hate it if one of you ends up in hospital tonight because somehow it went wrong. So that's were Quinn comes in. You gave her a key to your appartment so she could set everything up while you were on your way to Santana (Rachel's spending all week at her boyfriend's, so you didn't have to worry about her).

Santana seems slightly disappointed when she realises you're going to your place, but all is forgotten when you set foot inside.

You spent all day cleaning and rearranging the appartment but by the looks of it, Quinn has seen one too many chick flicks. The lights are turned down, there are rose petals _everywhere_ and the table is set perfectly. When you take another look around, you can see a box of chocolates on the counter. For a girl who claims to hate Valentine's Day she sure knows how to make it memorable.

There's a slight quiver in her voice when Santana asks if you did all this but before you can answer her she's pulled you down for one of those kisses that surrounds you, makes you levitate, and wipes away all thought. The mental checklist you've been going over all day has served its purpose but you think you should let go now.

* * *

As requested, Quinn has left all the ingredients and careful instructions in the kitchen so all you have to do is see what the next step is. Santana refuses to be left out of the kitchen so you let her read it out loud, occasionally checking to make sure she's not doing anything else. When the food's almost done, you tell her she can take a shower and change clothes if she wants to. You asked Quinn to bring over some of her clothes for tonight but when she walks back into the room twenty minutes later, she's wearing some of your clothes. She's blushing again when you quirk an eyebrow at her, but just takes a seat without saying anything. God, you love this girl.

* * *

After dinner you're a bit at a loss. You could always go for watching a film and cuddling on the sofa but there's something you have yet to do with Santana and tonight's kind of perfect for it since you're alone in your appartment. With one deep breath you gather your courage and walk up to her while turning on the stereo. You already made a playlist, just in case, and soon the room is filled with soft music. She doesn't look surprised when you offer your hand, only deeply pleased and takes it without question. When you fall into a rhythm and Santana starts singing along with some of the songs, you're content to just close your eyes and smile, pulling her flush against you.

You dance for a long time; you don't know how long but you almost feel like you're dreaming. You're warm and comfortable, slowed down to simply swaying. If it weren't for that other thing you also wanted to do tonight you would have danced until either of you actually did fall asleep. As it is, you carefully loosen your hold and step back a bit. Santana seems as dazed as you were just before and her voice is slightly huskier than normal when she asks why you stopped. You give her a quick peck and tell her you still haven't given her your present, ignoring her protests when she tells you were more than enough of a gift. You didn't go through all this trouble to end up not giving this to her. You get the box from under your bed and check to see if the bow is still exactly in the middle before walking back to the living room.

You never told Santana you've been keeping a journal since you started high school. You had trouble focussing and when the guidance counselor advised you to try it for a month you didn't think it would work. But it did and whenever you start feeling overwhelmed again, you go out and buy a notebook to write away your thoughts. You don't ususally keep them, but since this notebook isn't filled with thoughts concerning yourself, you couldn't throw it away when you ran out of pages.

It's not just your story in here but hers as well. You even put in some of her photos, along with a copy of her portrait and Christmas letter. It's notes and pictures, depicting the first five months of your relationship with Santana. It seems only right to share it with her.

* * *

A/N: So I was looking up some flowers for the bouquet and decided on amaryllis because they're beautiful and extravagant. Anyway, I was looking for a translation (which doesn't exist because everyone's lazy and adapts the Latin name) and found out that it's commonly referred to as 'naked lady'. Take that as you will.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Slow (part 2)

The nerves are making your hands tremble slightly when you enter the living room. Maybe it's too much? There are some thoughts and dreams in here that you never dared say aloud; letting Santana read them makes you incredibly vulnerable. Besides, most of the entries are random, flyaway thoughts. You just needed to get them out and didn't think it over when you marked blank pages black. You're not like Santana who thinks ahead all the time, carefully planning the message she wants to relay and constructing the best possible sentence to do so. Santana's deliberate and effective with her words whereas you are too excited to share your thoughts to bother filtering them. It has led to many misunderstandings, some of which were painful. It still surprises you it hasn't happened yet with Santana and sometimes, when you haven't seen her for a few days and miss her, you wonder when it will; when she'll see that perhaps you're just too different and it won't work out in the end.

But as soon as she hears your footsteps padding across the floor, she turns around to face you with another one of those inviting smiles. Then you remember why you even needed this notebook in the first place and that the cause of all those words is good. What you feel for Santana and what you're trying to show her and tell her (not just today, but everytime you see her or think about her) is good. The best, actually.

You shrug the nerves off, take a deep breath, and without further ado, you put the box in her hands. She looks at you curiously, but when she sees that you're in no state to talk right now, she just looks at the box and trails her fingers across the colourful bow. With one more look at you, she takes the lid off and peers inside, surprise in her eyes when she sees the notebook. It's nothing fancy like her (and your) agenda, just the first thing you found that Monday morning when you could no longer contain your nerves. You were meeting Santana that morning and needed something to make sure you wouldn't blurt out embarrassing things over coffee. Since that day, you took it everywhere. You wrote in it on the train, in bed, in the studio during breaks – you can still see the smudges and dried up paper from when someone knocked over your bottle of water.

She's so careful when she takes it out of the box, handling it with much more care than you ever did. You know you have to say something; otherwise she's more likely to just sit here all night and wonder what it is. She's not as shy anymore, not like she used to be in the beginning, but she'd never treat something new anything other than gingerly.

You explain that's it a diary, sort of. You don't think most diaries are bought and filled because of one person.

She still hestitates to open it and you think she might be more comfortable reading it on her own, so you get up and make your way to the kitchen to get a drink. You hear her opening the notebook, quietly muttering some of the words as she reads them and the rustle of pages. You don't look. You just put the kettle on, set out the tea and teacups and wait for the water to boil. Five minutes later, you carry a tray to the sofa and clear your throat to make your presence known.

Santana's reluctant to look into your eyes when you settle back next to her, opting instead to softly blow into her teacup, both hands wrapped around it. The notebook's closed again although she keeps throwing glances to her side, as if assuring herself it's still there. When your tea's gone cold and she still hasn't said anything, you start shifting in your seat; you can't read her like you're used to and it's unsettling.

Just as you're about to start yet another freak-out, she turns your way and takes your hands, slowly unfurling your tangled fingers. Calming you down. When your hands are open in her lap, she traces some of the lines with her two fingers, over and over, until you can't feel through the tingles anymore. Then she continues on to your wrist and you watch curiously as tiny hairs raise, as always mesmerised by the contrast in tone. After months of cold and sparse sunlight you'd think it would have faded, but it's still undeniably there. You can't wait for summer when your skin will turn a bit more like hers, warm and smooth.

You were so distracted by her ministrations that it takes you a while to notice she's looking at you. Santana has many expressions, you found out early on. Most of them varying from puzzled to distracted or annoyed, though never with you. When you got to know her better, she broke character more often, showing off a myriad of different smiles instead. This might be a new favourite: so small it's hard to notice, but taking over her entire face nonetheless. Especially her eyes, deep and flickering with affection. Why were you nervous again?

When you kiss her this time, you keep it soft and slow. You just gently brush against her lips, giving her dozens of tiny kisses before taking her bottom lip between yours. The small moan she lets out causes you to smile and with one final peck, you pull back. This is another one of your favourites, watching Santana after you've kissed. She always needs a little more time, giving you the perfect opportunity to admire her blush and fluttering lashes before falling into her eyes again. Welcome back.

* * *

When you wake up in the middle of the night, it's to a situation that's quickly becoming familiar: your legs are tangled with Santana's and you're practically squeezing her to death. You loosen your grip a bit and spit out some of her hair before groggily looking at your alarm clock. Great, you have two more hours until you have to get up but in the few seconds it took you to wake up enough to read the glaring digits, sleep has slipped away. Santana lets out some noises to show her discontent when you pull your arms back to rub your eyes and you can't help but press a small kiss to her shoulder. You look around your room to distract you until you fall beack asleep and your eyes fall on your desk. You still haven't opened Santana's card. Does her being in a semi-comatose state count as being on your own? With one more look at her face, you decide it's highly unlikely that she'll wake up anytime soon so you carefully make your way out of bed. You search for some socks and underwear before pulling a jumper over your head. You'll take the card to the living room so the light won't bother her.

The card is simple and you don't think it's a standard Hallmark one. It's a picture of a stack of old letters, bound together by a fancy ribbon that you think is supposed to be red. It's hard to say because the picture is in sepia. The letters are stacked haphazardly and the only indication as to what they're about is the lipstick mark you can see on three of them.

You open the card and are surprised to see Santana took both pages to write her message.

_Dear Brittany,_

_Happy Valentine's Day! I don't know when you'll read this or what your plans were for today, but just by sharing this day with you (whether in thought or in person) I'm sure it was unforgettable. I hope I didn't drive you mad over the past few days, constantly bringing it up, but if I did I'll be happy to make it up to you. I'm not sure how a Valentine's Day card is supposed to work when the other person already knows who it's from, so I'll just cite some of the things I love about you. They're not the reason I love you, because I couldn't possibly give you that. I love you like a force of nature, without cause or reason._

_I love how you care, about people, animals, ideas, and that you tell them so. Selfishly, I love how you let me know you love me, all the time and in more ways I ever thought possible._

_I love how you are amazed by the smallest things that most people wouldn't look twice at, happily pointing out the most beautiful clouds to strangers in the park 'because it's too special not to share.'_

_I love how you are selfless, yet never forget yourself. I think that that's important, because it makes it so much more special when you give something away._

_I love how you are a quiet source of energy, fueling all around but never overbearing. _

_These are just a few things I love about you, I'd rather spend my time showing you that than trying to find the words to properly express myself._

_All my love, _

_Santana_

In the bottom right corner she left you a kiss, fiery red and perfect.

You let out a shaky breath before tucking the card back in the envelope and getting up from the sofa. Despite your jumper and knee-high socks there are goose bumps all over your body, although you think it might have something to do with Santana's words as well.

When you close the door to your bedroom and hop around on one leg to take off your sock, you hear her tossing and turning under the sheets and decide to just leave it. You climb back into bed and wrap your arms around her again, pressing a few kisses to her hairline before falling back asleep. You don't even see the satisfied smile gracing Santana's face as she buries her head in the crook of your neck.

* * *

A/N: This didn't take as long as I'd anticipated, so there you go. I hope you liked it and if not, please let me know how I can improve. As always, many thanks to my awesome Beta and to you for reading. I'm not sure when I'll have enough inspiration and time for another chapter, but I discovered it helps to keep updates close so I'll try. Enjoy the remainder of the weekend and have a great week!


	15. Chapter 14

A/N: Man, this chapter just did _not_ go the way I wanted it to. And I'm sorry for the mistakes, I let my Beta have a look at it earlier but then made some changes and didn't want to bother her again. But thank you for your help. Special thanks to Boredsenseless2 because you're awesome and totally made my day!

* * *

Chapter 14: Linger

One of the best things about waking up next to Santana (besides waking up next to Santana) is the total calm. Just knowing that when you open your eyes and turn your head, she's there. Most days, she's awake already and patiently waiting for you.

You love the way she looks at you, directly after waking up. Her eyes still thick with sleep but flickering with excitement for another day, her mind leagues ahead of her body which still has trouble computing the thought of getting up. You're the exact opposite: body ready to jump out of bed while your brain is still shrouded by mists of oblivion. It's the reason you don't usually get to enjoy breakfast in bed; that would require a somewhat functioning brain _and_ pair of hands. Not that you're in any way opposed to the best remedy to this problem: a shower. Sometimes Santana lets you wash her hair, and you revel in the intimacy of it. You love her hair, all luxurious dark curls; so different from yours. She always complains how it needs so much work to remain even remotely presentable, preferably while you rinse out the shampoo or softly drag your fingers through wet strands, and you might love that even more.

But today is not one of those days with blissful relaxation, you both have early classes and you're already running late. Whoever invented snoozing must have been out of his mind. (Certainly a woman would never waste her time thinking of something as futile as _snoozing_, much less think of a device to accommodate such foolishness. (Maybe you should stop reading those Jane Austen novels you borrowed from your mother, you're starting to sound like a middle aged English housewife in your head.))

While you walk around the kitchen, opening and re-opening the same cupboard three times searching for some cereal or anything edible, you hear Santana rummage through the bag Quinn packed for her, followed by a long and annoyed groan. You understand why when she steps out a few minutes later, braiding her hair and wearing a dress you're sure cannot be Santana's, with a matching cardigan. It's yellow, a faint, pastel yellow. She sends you a half-hearted glare when you can't contain your snickering any longer, but you notice the blush on her cheeks when she mutters something about being mean and shutting up. You just blow her a kiss and push a bowl in her direction. When you gesture towards her outfit with raised eyebrows, she admits the dress is actually hers. You almost choke on your orange juice when you hear that and wait for her to explain as you calm down your breathing. Her mum bought it for her to wear to one of her cousin's quinceañeras because apparently the dresses she used to wear were inappropriate.

Instead of teasing her about the dress (which would be quite nice in a different colour) you pull her around the breakfast bar for a kiss that might be a bit enthusiastic for this time of day. It wakes you up better and infinitely more pleasantly than any shower could. Before you completely pull back, you think back to last night and nuzzle the soft skin behind her ear. You giggle at the shiver that runs through her and whisper a small thank you before parting with one more kiss. The way she briefly tightens her hold, tells you she knows what for.

Fifteen minutes later, you try to drown out the noises on the train with loud, cheesy music; ignoring the amused smirk from the man next to you when you belt out some Whitney Houston by accident. It doesn't stop you from wondering if Santana kept those old dresses.

* * *

Friday's classes are always tiring but you're glad they at least stop at four. It means you can still go to your café afterwards to meet up with Santana. This time you can't just give in to exhaustion though, something's going on. You always turn you phone off when you're in class and toss it in your bag. You only thought of it when you got out of the subway station, surprised to see that over the last two hours, she's tried calling you at least six times. She also sent several messages, urging you to call her back. The last message told you she's okay, she isn't hurt or anything and she's at the café, so you're not really worried but it still seems strange. Especially because she tells you to please not freak out when you get there.

The café's just around the corner so you decide to just leave it and see what's going on. You send the man holding the door for you a grateful smile before making your way towards the bar. Ian brings you a hot chocolate before you can even open your mouth and sends you a wink. You suspect it has something to do with that chocolate cake – you've been practising. Maybe you should try to branch out, but under Santana's supervision to make sure you don't screw up.

As soon as you think of her name, your eyes swoop across the room to that small table in the corner no one even bothers with on Friday afternoons. Santana has her back to you and you can see she took her hair out of her braid, nervously twirling a strand around her finger. Before you can fully take in the image, you're startled by a pair of very familiar eyes looking at you inquisitively. You can't help but look back, taking in the rest of her face: remarkably familiar and so different at the same time. Either Ian put up some freaky mirror, or you've just been caught staring at Santana's mother.

Your cheeks are on fire and you groan when you look down at your clothes. You curse yourself for not packing something a little nicer than ripped jeans and an old sweatshirt. But at least you didn't skip a shower so it's not as bad as it could be. Still, this does not look good.

* * *

For a second you wonder what it'd look like when you just turned around to finish your drink at the bar before going home and send Santana a text. But then you shake your head; you could never muster much sympathy for cowards. Besides, you suppose you have to meet her parents _sometime_. At that exact moment, you feel something hit the back of your head and when you look behind you see see Ian duck behind the bar and a packet of sugar on the floor. Man, that guy is pushy. But it was also the final nudge you needed to make your way across the café, painfully aware of dark eyes following your every step.

Santana nearly jumps in her seat when you rest your hand on her shoulder but smiles briefly when she sees it's you. She motions for you to take her seat while she gets up to get another chair from a nearby table. It confuses you, because there is another empty seat. Before you can point this out however, Santana's back, followed by the man who held the door open for you not ten minutes ago. He's not very tall, but exudes a certain calming authority. You instantly like him and start to feel a little better about this impromptu meeting. Santana must feel your unease and scoots her chair a bit closer before taking your hand in both of hers. Just like she did last night, she draws lines in your palm, soothing you. You don't have as much trouble meeting her parents' eyes like this and you even manage a smile when you introduce yourself. Her father, Diego, gives you a firm handshake, telling you how much he'd been looking forward to meeting you. Her mother, Gloria, is a bit more reticent but offers a small smile and simply nods in acknowledgement.

You still have some trouble looking at her, it's eerie how much she looks like Santana (you know that technically, Santana looks like her, but you've known Santana longer). She obviously does not share your uneasiness and calmly takes you in. You're glad for Santana's father because he strikes up an easy conversation with his daughter and asks you some questions as well. Nothing serious, just about your day or the weather. It puts you at ease, but you can't shake the feeling all this small talk is just to get you to loosen up and ease you into more serious conversation. Santana's told you he's a surgeon and you think this is how he prepares his patients for their surgery. You're glad Santana's holding your hand.

* * *

You politely decline the offer to join them for dinner, afraid it would be too much. A drink and light conversation went well enough but you don't know how you'd handle dinner with them. It's longer and more formal, giving you more opportunities to slip. They'll be here for another few days so you'll make sure to make it up later. Now you just need some time to process.

You don't blame Santana for not telling you they were coming, it was a surprise to her as well. You just hope you haven't made a fool of yourself; her parents are rather intimidating. When you're about to part ways, Santana comes up to you and leads you away to a more secluded part of the café. You can see how much this surprise stressed her out as well and stop her before she gets the chance to apologise. She lowers her shoulders and the faint frown smoothes away when you softly caress her brow. She'll explain later.

She's a bit shy when she asks you if you're home alone tonight, you were supposed to stay at her place but that's not going to happen right now. She doesn't want to feel like she's using you for a place to stay and she can still aks Quinn, but… She's still so adorable, it actually hurts sometimes. You just kiss her quickly before telling her to have fun with her parents. You'll see her later tonight.


	16. Chapter 15

A/N: I'm sorry it took me a bit longer to come up with another chapter and that it's slightly shorter as well. Just been busy with school and I probably will be for a little while longer, so I'm sorry if I don't update regularly. As always, special thanks to my Beta and to you for reading, reviewing or appreciating this story in other ways.

* * *

Chapter 15: Dramatics

When you get to your appartment, you grow frustrated the closer you get. Rachel and what's-his-face must be on one of their breaks again because there is angry-girl rock music blasting through the speakers, deafening the neighbours. As expected, there she is in the living room. There are black tracks of mascara on her cheeks, a melting tub of that disgusting vegan crap she dares call ice cream on the coffee table, and she's standing in the middle of torn up photographs with a box of tissues clutched to her chest. When she notices you walking up to her tentatively, the hand holding a pink, dazzling microphone goes limp and her mouth and chin start trembling.

You may not always like her, but you genuinely feel sorry for her in that moment. When she starts sobbing into your chest (seriously, how small is she?) and squeezes you to death, not so much. But you lift your arms after a small struggle and make some half-hearted shushing sounds that you hope are comforting. You don't know her very well and you've never been comfortable with upset people. You never know what to say, so you mostly end up silently petting them on the back until they've calmed down.

Rachel shows no signs of _ever_ calming down though, putting the full capacity of her lungs to use. You sigh and just rock her back and forth for a bit, thankful you got something to eat on the way back from the café.

In a moment of inspriration, you come up with something to say to her that you're sure will make her feel better. She's always pestering you about it and this seems like a good moment to finally let her walk you through the genius of _Funny Girl_. It works and ten minutes later, you already regret your momentary lapse of sanity as she babbles on about Barbra Streisand and how exactly she's affected her life. After another thirty minutes however, it's suspiciously quiet and when you look to your right, you see her head leaning against the back of the sofa in an uncomfortable angle. You turn off the television and after some unsuccesful tries you finally wake her up, carry her to her room, and tuck her in. You hesitate for a moment but make a quick trip to the bathroom and return with a wet washcloth to clean her face. It's been a long time since you cried, but you remember hating to wake up with a face stretched from tears. It's unfair not to have those few seconds after waking up, when you're not yet fully aware where you are or how you fell asleep. She doesn't wake up thankfully, but shuffles around a bit before curling up in herself and hiding beneath the blankets. You hope tomorrow will be a better day.

* * *

You're cleaning up the appartment, walking around with an empty garbage bag and toss all the shreds of happy memories in it, along with the entire contents of the tissue box and the now empty tub of 'ice cream.' You know your roommate sleeps like the dead, but you briefly wonder whether she'd wake up if you'd start vacuuming the living room. Before you can, the doorbell rings and just like that, it's easier to breathe. The heavy atmosphere lifts with every step you make towards the door until you're smiling at Santana again.

You notice she's wearing a fancy dress you hadn't seen before and motion for her to twirl so you can see properly. Gorgeous. She grins at the compliment before standing on her toes to give you a quick kiss. It's probably the first time she didn't look away after you complimented her and you love it. It makes it more real somehow, although you'll always love the timid blush she gets when you voice your appreciation for her personally, not the dress she might be wearing.

After a quick kiss you step further into the appartment and make your way to the living room when you realise Santana's not following behind you. When you turn around you see her walking to the kitchen, barefoot. The way she just feels so at home at your place is somewhat astounding, considering the fact that you haven't been dating (romantically at least) for that long. She just hums in confirmation when you ask her whether she's making tea and has to stand on her toes to reach the shelf housing your favourite mug. (You put it there because you have no trouble reaching but Rachel would have to climb on the counter.) You walk up to her to keep her company and as you throw a glance towards the clock and see it's only eight o'clock. Perfect. Yesterday you discovered there weren't any cookies left and tea without cookies is like listening to music but not being abe to dance to it: not half as much fun and a little cruel. There's only one solution to this problem: make them yourself. Of course, you were in the middle of freaking out yesterday so that didn't really work out, but Santana's here now which makes it all better.

So here you are fifteen minutes later, covered in flour and with butter on your hands and nose – which is all her fault because she tickled you when you were starting to knead the dough. You _may_ have an extreme reaction to being tickled. But then she kisses your pout away and tells you to get the chocolate. You really like baking with Santana, even if she is bossing you around.

As you continue kneading the dough, she's chopping the chocolate to acceptable size before clearing her throat and asking what you thought of her parents. Your hands still for a second but you're glad to find out it doesn't make you as nervous as you'd expected. She doesn't seem to believe you when you tell her you liked meeting them. You admit you were a bit anxious when you saw her mother sharing your table at the café, but when her father joined you it wasn't as bad anymore. She quickly looks away when you say that and you know she's embarrassed when she tells you her mother can come off rather strong. It's just that she's very curious about Santana's life and grills her every chance she gets. Preferably about her love life and when she can expect her first grandchild.

How your favourite mug survived its fall to the ground and you managed not to faint will forever be one of the greater mysteries of your life. For a second you think you misheard her but she casually keeps talking, taking no notice to the clamour or your sudden ragged breathing. Seriously? Are you the only person who thinks it's more than a little presumptuous to have this kind of talk after only dating for two months?

Santana has to hit you with a towel to regain your attention, seemingly oblivious to what she's caused. It takes you another ten seconds to hear what she's saying which confuses you even more. Her mother liked you?

She gently pushes you aside to check the dough before adding the chocolate chips and kneading it some more. Then she takes the baking sheet from the oven and orders you to help her make the cookies. You're still not entirely sure what just happened so you just nod and roll small pieces of dough between your hands until ther're perfectly round and pass them over. It's not long before you run out of dough and you think you should probably say something. You were in the middle of conversation after all. Would she notice if you just skipped the whole babies comment? You really need those cookies to be done, like right now.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, the cookies are cooling down, filling the appartment with their aroma. If Santana noticed your tension, she doesn't mention it and you're glad the subject has drifted into another direction: polar bears and whether they're able to tell how soft their fur is. You're much more comfortable talking about this and do so for the rest of the evening. You feel slightly guilty for not saying much about her parents but you're not sure you can handle that at the moment.

When you're settled in bed and about to drift off to sleep, you feel Santana turn towards you and try to open your eyes. Before you can, however, she presses a small kiss to your forehead and whispers not to worry so much. She already told her mother to keep the knitting of baby clothes off for at least another couple of years. Your heart skips a beat, but you're not sure why exactly.


	17. Chapter 16

A/N: I'm so sorry it took such a long time to post this chapter, I really am. There is no legitimate excuse for it, other than lack of inspiration. For that same reason, I have decided this chapter will be the last. So I hope you'll enjoy it and I want to thank everyone for reading this story, leaving reviews and following or favouriting (so weird, is that an actual word?). It means a lot.

* * *

Chapter 16: No doubt

It's strange how quickly you got used to waking up with a mouthful of hair and warmer than should be comfortable, but on the days you don't, you miss it. You miss it because that way your bed seems to be too big, there's no soothing scent lingering on your pillow and your hands come up empty when you reach out.

Santana's parents left last night and she went to see them off at the airport before going back to her place. She spent the last four days at your appartment and you're even more convinced that some day, you want to share everything with her. Preferably someday soon.

It surprised you how well she got along with Rachel. Not just because they hadn't really met before but you were still worried that their personalities might clash. The outcome to a possible fight between the two (which you thought was more probable than possible) would not have been pretty, and not just because you would have egged them on or prepared Santana by spilling all of Rachel's weaknesses. You envisoned scratches, bitemarks, verbal assaults you wouldn't have been able to follow and maybe some loss of hair. It was slightly disappointing when none of that happened. Rachel was still uncharacteristically silent when she woke up on Saturday and therefore not nearly as obnoxious as usual. She initially didn't show any interest in either Santana or yourself, but that's probably for the best. When you asked how she felt, she didn't say a lot but expressed her gratitude for helping her earlier. Santana looked slightly puzzed, but to her credit, she expressed her sympathy and even got Rachel to smile a tiny bit by making fun of Finn (you were never very kind talking about him or his relationship with Rachel). In the following days, when you were both at your place, she'd make it a personal challenge to come up with something to make Rachel smile at least once a day. Sometimes, she'd say something about Finn or men in general, sometimes it would be an unexpected reference to a musical or an observation to the news. You're still in awe of Santana, especially in moments like that. You admire her wit, her sense of humour and her ability to remember the most trivial of things and use them in such a way that they don't seem trivial at all. For someone who claims to be difficult to be around, you can't imagine someone you'd rather have comfort you. And she does, more than she thinks. She did it all through Sunday, when you'd promised to have dinner with her parents. She took you to some of her favouite places in the city to distract you beforehand and didn't let you doubt yourself for a second at the restaurant. Not that it was an awkward dinner or that you didn't enjoy it – because you did. It was a relatively new restaurant and her mother had chosen it for that specific reason, curious to find out if it lived up to its promises. If you were a chef, you don't think you would've liked having her test your restaurant. She was meticulous in examining the place, the wine, the food. Selfishly, you were glad for the distraction though, otherwise she might have been more focused on you and that thought makes you shudder. No matter how many times Santana claims her mother likes you, you have a hard time believing it and you're not sure what to make of her father either. But that might have been the nerves as well. He was very kind, made some jokes and when you asked him about his work, he only stopped talking to briefly thank the waiter for bringing out the food. Santana was deep in conversation with her mother, talking about recipes and ingredients or something, but occasionally making sure you were all right from across the table. All in all, dinner was pleasant enough and you don't think you embarrassed yourself. Still, you're glad they went back to Florida and you can let it all sink in so you'll be better prepared next time you meet.

* * *

You like how since you met her parents, Santana is more open to share things from her past with you. Not that she didn't tell you anything before, but now she doesn't need prompting anymore and randomly blurts out anecdotes and when you tell her you don't believe it, she's quick to show some pictures as evidence. (You _really_ wish you'd met Santana in her rebellious teenage years and can't blame her mother for forcing her into that more wholesome dress at family gatherings.)

Of course, there are also the less than pleasant memories and you don't know how to describe the feeling you get when she no longer hesitates to share those as well. You love the trust she places in you at those times and how she's not even aware of it. Like when she told you about the first time she went back to church after an unfortunate incident informed her entire hometown of her sexuality. Apparently, her grandmother wouldn't even look at her and she was already on her way out when their priest came up to her and told her to just take a seat and he'd handle it. You can't help but fall in love even more when she tells you how it still took her grandmother the better part of a year to treat her like before. She's so strong and more loving than she gives herself credit for; she never judged her grandmother or loved her any less. It's a great example of her personality you think: when Santana loves someone, she does so wholeheartedly, but it takes her a long time to reach that stage. She keeps to herself at first and studies her surroundings on her own pace. Carefully taking note of everything going on around her until there aren't any secrets left and she's difficult to surprise. It's comforting to you, because when she lets you know she loves you, it means she loves all of you.

You've been told on various occasions that you're easy to love and love everyone without question. That's not actually true, but it is true that you're naturally friendly and openhearted. You want people to get along and be happy and the easiest way to achieve that is showing them affection. Unlike Santana, you dive in head first when you happen upon a new situation. It means you get disappointed from time to time, but you wouldn't know what else to do. None of those people you like or love though come anywhere near the place Santana so rapidly took possesion of. Maybe that's because you didn't see her coming. You think you'll never get a surprise like her again, but that's all right; you don't think you could handle it anyway.

* * *

Although you spend a lot more time together than you did when you first met, Fridays are still exclusive Brittany-Santana time. You don't necessarily go out on a fancy date, but you always meet at the café and just see where things go most of the time. To your surprise, you start hanging out with Quinn some more, as well as some other friends of Santana's. You like most of them, despite not always getting their jokes. She always notices and explains what they were talking about before making a joke at their expense (thankfully, they can see the humour in this and have no trouble mocking themselves). When your friends started complaining that they hardly ever saw you anymore, you felt slightly guilty and promised to spend more time with them. You didn't know whether to be insulted or not when they told you they're far more interested in meeting your girlfriend, not that you can blame them. You did spend a lot of the time you'd usually hang out with them with Santana and even when you didn't, you couldn't stop talking about her. Now you think they like her more than you. Again, you can't blame them and you're glad they get along so well.

It's just over three months since your dance recital and still you can't quite believe what happened that night. It's also six months ago that you first met and you don't want to let that pass by unnoticed. You have a sneaking suspicion Santana has a whole night planned (you love how serious she takes such things and goes out of her way planning something absolutely perfect), but you have your own surprise. You took up some photography lessons and you've been working on making an album filled with pictures that remind you of Santana. It's almost finished, but it's nearly impossible to capture the vision in your head on film. This morning, you're lucky: you wake up before her and rummage around in your drawers to get your camera ready. There's something about a sleeping Santana that gets to you every time and this time you can finally perpetuate that serenity.

Just as you put the camera back, you see her waking up, sleepily searching around for you. You giggle softly when she grows impatient but still refuses to open her eyes and you put her out of her misery by climbing back into bed. Today's a lazy Sunday, maybe you'll go to the park later. But for now, you'd rather wrap your arms around this exquisite human being who has captured your heart entirely. It might scare you if she didn't chastise you in that sleepy non-sensical voice you love so much for getting out of bed. There's no doubt in your mind she feels the same way.

* * *

A/N: Feel free to scream my head off if you feel so inclined but I hope you'll be able to live with this ending. I think it's safe to assume these two idiots will spend the rest fo their existence loving each other more than reason. Thanks again for sticking with the story; if it weren't for you, this would have ended somewhere in November.  
Once again, I'd like to praise my Beta into the heavens because she's amazing and wonderful and I hope college will let her cultivate all her talents. Thank you so much!


End file.
